


Light Becomes What it Touches

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e21 Beta, Multi, Road Trips, Threesome - F/M/M, background root/shaw - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 18:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: When Grace's number comes up, Harold asks John to take her out of the city and keep her safe. On the road trip upstate, John and Grace must work around the secrets between them to stay alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to: lilacsigil for betaing, talkingtothesky for support and cheerleading, and mulasawala for wonderful art.
> 
> Title is from the poem Monet Refuses the Operation by Lisel Mueller:  
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52577/monet-refuses-the-operation-56d231289e6db

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=73gwid)

It's been more than a week but John can't move on from that cold moment back in New York when Harold walked away. They'd just got back from Washington, Shaw was leaning hard against John while they slipped past police, trying to get back to the library, and Harold? Harold pulled his old disappearing act, and vanished between breaths.

The numbers come in thick and fast after that, two or three a day, as if the Machine wants to keep him busy. Shaw alternately rides him for trying to be the leader of their group or for not trying hard enough. And Root is everywhere which means she's nowhere when it comes to back-up. 

All the way through this, John does what's needed to hold his remnant team together and focused. Eats, drinks, walks the dog. Works out, sleeps, jacks off, showers, and then goes out to save people. Rinse and repeat. Harold doesn't call. 

One night he's flat on his back listening to Bear prowl the loft, and wondering why his neck hurts, until he realises he's been clenching his teeth, probably for days. Then he can't stop analysing the situation. John didn't kill the Congressman. Harold left anyway. And okay, John can respect the ideology, but not the way Harold vanished. He can't even justify this anger that's brewing inside him, because he and Harold never talked about… God, he can't even think the word "relationship." They never talked about what they were together, and now John's on his own with a team to protect and nobody to talk to about what he did or didn't have with Harold.

That's not entirely true: one very early morning he drunkenly spills his guts to Zoe on her doorstep after she gets home from some event. She doesn't say anything, just drags him into her place and onto the sofa, wraps a blanket around him and rests her chin on his shoulder. He falls asleep in her arms wondering how he could miss physical contact so much, when Harold's only been gone for eight days. It's not like he slept with Harold every night. Not even every second night.

When Harold breaks his silence, it's because Grace's number has come up. John's phone rings while they deal with the bogus driver outside Grace's home. 

"Get her out of the city," Harold says without preamble. "Keep her safe." 

John looks at Grace, at Shaw, at the Samaritan agent she's throttling. He's got the phone to his ear, even though Harold is silent. Hearing him breathe on the other end of the line is like coming home. For a moment he lets himself forget that Harold doesn't want to be part of their lives anymore. 

Shaw pauses with her arm crushing the man's throat. "Is that…?" She doesn't say his name. John is grateful, for that and the ability to make his face blank.

"I trust you to protect her, John." Then the line goes dead. 

Shaw touches her own earpiece. "This isn't the time. Root…" Her face goes grim and she nods towards the end of the street. "Reinforcements on the way."  
She reaches into Grace’s luggage and pulls out a tablet, throws it to the ground with a tinkle. Grace shrieks and Shaw takes the chance to grab the phone from her pocket and sends after the tablet. Grace stares appalled at the sad pile of glass and plastic, and Shaw shrugs. “It’s full of tracking software, apparently." 

John pushes a protesting Grace towards the car. "I'm sorry; we need to go." It's easy to slip into bodyguard mode: Grace is moved into the vehicle, it's secured, and they're away from the curb in less than a minute. Behind him, he can see Shaw lining up her shots; as they turn the corner, Root zips past steering her bike with her knees so she can aim the Uzi. They turn the corner before the street lights up with muzzle flash. 

Grace is silent in the back seat, watching him, glancing nervously over her shoulder. John can see the questions lining up in her mind, but fortunately she’s got the sense to wait until they’re not driving to let them spill out. 

He’s picked up a tail: two black SUVs driving aggressively, forcing their way through traffic with hoots and the occasional shove to clear a path. His phone dings and he glances at it: the number is unfamiliar but the text is undeniably Harold, sending directions, precise and succinct. He takes a sharp left where Harold says, throws off the tail, comes out closer to the park, where tourists are still thronging even at this hour. The phone dings again from another new number. Harold must be rerouting his number with every text to throw off Samaritan’s trackers. John is parsing the instructions when he nearly runs down a pair of backpackers who have wandered into the street. 

Grace makes a squeak of terror, equal to the expression on the backpackers’ faces, and lunges for the phone beside John on the front passenger seat. “There’s not much point in this if they’re only going to pull us out of a wreck,” she says, and reads the message. “It says to change vehicles now, and remember to disable the GPS tracking.” She watches him, dubious. “Do you know how to do that? Because I sure as hell don’t.” The phone dings again, and she glances down. “Oh. It’s got instructions.” 

John conceals a smile. Harold is nothing if not thorough. 

He picks a nondescript family sedan in a crowded parking garage, flips open his knife and cuts out the security and the satellite tracking while Grace sits in the passenger seat and chews on a nail. She’s holding onto the phone like it’s her last connection to civilisation. John wonders if Harold is listening in, then chides himself. Of course he’s listening in. John slides in behind the wheel and reaches under the dashboard. 

“Can you do something for me?” he says as he works on the ignition. 

Grace is watching him boost the car, her expression showing the realisation that this is not normal cop behaviour. “What do you want me to do?” she asks, warily. 

“Send a text on that phone, ask for them to give us a window in the security cameras,” he says. If Harold’s listening in, she won’t really need to text, but it will give her something to focus on. He hopes that Harold is okay with it.

The engine kicks over, and he’s blasted with pop music, some boy band. It’s loud enough that they both jump and then wince at the same time. Grace is faster to the controls of the stereo. 

“Anything about that surveillance window?” he asks, backing out swiftly but with care. 

Grace checks the phone, which buzzes almost as soon as John has finished speaking. “You have two minutes. And you should head for the Holland Tunnel.” She holds the phone like it could explode at any moment. John bounces them through the exit and into traffic. 

Grace doesn’t speak again until they’re off the island. 

The darkness, once they've left the city behind them, is intense: it sits heavy on the road, makes everything outside the twin cones of light seem menacing. Grace sits quietly in the passenger seat, watching road signs fly past as the road empties and the car is the remaining source of light. Then she lets out a breath, as if the solitude is a kind of freedom. 

"Where are we going?" she says, while John drives in silence down a long, tree-lined road. "Please tell me there's a plan." She looks down at the phone she is still clasping. "Actually, if there's no plan, can you just lie? I can't function with more uncertainty in my life." 

John checks the clock on the dash: it's a little past two in the morning. They've been driving upstate through the night. He guesses Harold intends them to lose Samaritan by moving outside areas of high surveillance. He glances to the side quickly and sees that Grace is still watching him, waiting patiently for him to answer her question. 

"There's always a plan," he says. "Even when a rescue is unexpected, I've done this often enough that the fundamentals are ingrained: lose the pursuit, find a new temporary base of operations to rest and recoup, then work towards a permanent safe location." 

"A permanent…" says Grace, horrified and a little bit angry. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me I can't go home? You try and stop me, mister." For a moment, John worries that she's going throw open the door to jump out and he lets his hand fall away from the wheel, ready to grab for her if she moves quickly. 

"There's no point in worrying about that," he says, reasonably. "Let's concentrate on surviving the next twenty four hours." 

Grace pulls her knees up to her chin and hugs her legs. "I was supposed to be on a plane," she says. "They were flying me over first class: I was going to drink martinis and steal all the free stuff from the bathroom." 

John can't help it, he laughs. "In first class they give you the stuff from the bathroom. In a little purse." 

"Really?" Grace says, amazed. "Now I'm even more sorry I didn't make it onto the flight." Her expression is mock wounded, amazing when you consider that three hours ago, she had been frightened for her life. Still, Grace wouldn't be the person Harold loved if she weren't someone remarkable. 

It's a surprise to be smiling while he drives, but John finds that he is. "How are you doing?" he asks. "You want a coffee break?" 

"We're grown ups. Call it what it is: a bathroom break," says Grace. Her grin falls away. "Actually, coffee would be great, but will it be safe to stop?" 

John turns to look at her directly. "I'll keep you safe," he says. "That's my job." 

"Okay." Grace's tone is blithe but there's a little crease between her eyebrows. 

The phone, silent for some hours now, buzzes to life, and Grace jumps, startled. She'd left it in the cup holder after it had been silent for a whole hour, and apparently she'd forgotten about it. Now, she reaches for it with two fingers, as if picking up something frightening. 

"It's my partner," says John. "He's probably checked ahead, researched the rest stops." 

Grace is delighted by the idea. "It's like my own personal Trip Advisor," she says, scrolling through the list avidly. "Oh, look, there's a place that does Belgian waffles all night. I love eating stuff like that in the middle of the night." 

That's why it's on the list, thinks John, but doesn't say anything. He takes the turnoff to the waffle house. It's a good location, he finds, when he pulls into the parking lot, which is well lit but too far off the highway to warrant security cameras. There are big glass walls, but John can see a few places he can tuck Grace in safely. The clientele at this time of night seem to be mostly middle class stoners.

In the parking lot, Grace pauses, her hand on the car door. "How did your partner know we'd need to stop around now?" she says, looking down at the phone. 

John takes the phone from her and slips it into his pocket. "We've been working together for a while," he says. It wouldn't do for her to realise Harold is listening in to every word they say. That would be creepy. It isn't until he's holding the heavy glass door open for Grace that he realises he doesn't find it creepy at all anymore, and hasn't for a long time. He's not sure how he feels about that. 

He orders coffee for them both, and Grace gets a ridiculous heap of waffles and ice cream. When it arrives, it's nearly as big as her head, and she laughs as the waiter puts it down in front of her. As soon as they're alone again, she picks up the long narrow spoon and turns the plate looking for a good place to start. 

John sips his coffee and watches her poke it experimentally with her long spoon. 

"I guess this isn't so bad, if it's a last meal," she says, toppling a scoop of ice cream from the teetering tower. She spoons a mouthful in, and rolls her eyes. "Oh, that's good. I hope we don't have to run for our lives or anything, because I'll be groaning and holding my belly instead." 

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=28ui43l)

The ice cream is melting and John is on his second coffee when she gives up and flops back in her seat. 

"If I eat another mouthful, I'll explode," she says, nevertheless cramming a final spoonful of ice cream and sauce into her mouth. "Do you want any? It's not like we can take it away in a doggy bag." 

John shakes his head. "If we have to run for our lives, I'll need to be able to throw you over my shoulder," he says, only half joking. "Can't do that on a full belly." 

Grace is appalled at this. "Please leave me to die. I'd rather die than barf all down the back of your suit," she says, earnestly. 

John laughs, an honest, easy laugh that startles him. He reminds himself to concentrate, to maintain a good distance between him and the subject, but Grace is too fascinating, both for what she informs him about Harold, and for herself. He scans the restaurant, checks the parking lot is clear then catches the waiter's eye for the check. "Time to go," he says. 

He makes Grace wait while he checks the bathroom, going right into the women's cubicles with no embarrassment. Grace offers to check first if there's anyone in there. 

"That kind of defeats the purpose," he says. He hasn't drawn his weapon – he doesn't want to panic Grace – but his hand hovers over his holster. 

Back in the passenger seat, Grace is asleep in minutes, lulled by sugar and chocolate. John drives, watches her sleeping, and when he's sure she's in REM, slips his earwig in place. 

It gives a hiss the moment it's there: Harold has been waiting for a chance for them to talk. 

"How is she?" he asks. 

John can speak without moving his lips much, and the sound shouldn't wake Grace. "Crashed out after all the adrenaline," he says, not looking in her direction. The road is deserted, and he is starting to hope they've escaped Samaritan's grasp. 

"Ms Shaw and Groves made plenty of noise to cover your escape. They're still leading Decima on a wild goose chase." Harold sounds impressed despite himself. "I believe we can reassure ourselves that you were not followed. Samaritan should not be able to reacquire a trace on you, unless Grace triggers a facial recognition response." 

"Samaritan means the country isn't big enough to get lost in anymore, Finch. She won't be able to avoid cameras forever." There are certain names that are sure to pull Grace out of sleep, even a deep, exhausted sleep like this, so for now Harold is Finch, if John has to say the name at all. 

Harold's voice is dry, sarcasm covering up his concern. "Well, that was the reason I wanted Grace to leave the country, but that's out of the question now. I'm collating a new identity for her now. Getting her across the border will give you the best chance for relocation."

John considers it while he drives. It isn't impossible: he'd smuggled people in and out of the country before, and while Samaritan's ability to listen in on every conversation and see through every lens will make it more difficult, it isn't impossible. "I can get her across the border but I have to tell you, she's pretty upset at the idea of being uprooted." 

"I would rather Grace was alive and unhappy in another country than dead in this one," Harold speaks short and deliberately, making certain that John knows he has no voice in this decision. 

John's hand clenches on the wheel, a reflex action. He and Harold didn't argue often, but when they did, it was like this: scrupulously polite and scathing.

"She's not the same person she was back then. Neither of you are," he says, in the affably reasonable tone that he knows Harold finds infuriating. "Besides, I think you're underestimating Grace. She's better able to handle this than you realise." 

The line cuts off, an abrupt little snap that is as close as Harold gets to hanging up on someone. John should feel bad about riling him up, but right now, with Grace under his umbrella of care, it's easier to see the flaws in the way Harold has managed his life – and Grace's – since the bombing. 

Harold doesn't call again, and John drives through the night over back roads and past state forests, wending his way towards the nearest point for a covert border crossing. 

They're in a used car lot on the edge of Scranton when he taps Grace on the shoulder. She snaps awake with a small scream, staring around herself in bewildered panic. When she sees John standing outside her window, she grimaces. 

"I had convinced myself this was a dream," she says, opening the door and clambering out. 

John shakes his head. "Sorry. We need to change vehicles and it's easier to take one that nobody's going to miss for a few hours." He points to the workshop, where he's disabled the security system. "There's a bathroom in there, if you need it. I'm going to be working on getting our new car started."

It's barely morning: the light is thin and grey, and there's mist still clinging to the dips and hollows of the ground. Still blinking, Grace checks her watch, rubs her eyes and walks towards the workshop, stretching her arms and rolling her shoulders. 

John pops the hood of a nondescript grey sedan, solid enough to give them good protection should there be a pursuit, but old enough that there's no GPS installed. He flicks out his knife and starts cutting wires on the alarm before he hotwires it. 

He jumps at approaching footsteps, reaching for his gun but it's just Grace. She puts a chipped mug of black coffee on the engine block. John stares in surprise, then stands straight and accepts the cup. The coffee isn't great, but it's scalding hot and sweet. The cup, cheap and mass-produced, says "Warning: do not feed the mechanics!"

Grace cradles her own mug. "They had a machine so I made a pot. I wasn't sure how you took it, when it's not waffle house espresso." She leans against the car opposite with her ankles crossed and hugs her cup close for warmth. 

"This is fine," John says, and after another mouthful, balances the mug carefully on the engine block again. He reaches deep into the engine, feeling for the wires that feed the GPS signal to the dash. 

Daylight breaks properly when John's sitting in the driver's seat working under the dash. The light creeps along the field facing the lot, flooding the straggly grass with gold. Outside, Grace makes a soft noise and reaches out to catch the sunlight in her cupped palm. She seems to be breathing carefully, as if a loud noise will startle the magic of the morning away. Completely unselfconscious, she wriggles her fingers in the golden light, turns her hand over and over in it. She looks up and, catching John watching her, gives him a goofy smile. 

"I don't get to see this as often as I should. I'm not really a morning person." 

John is briefly struck by an image of her, soft-limbed and sleepy as light creeps over the counterpane, hair mussed and eyes half open. He blinks and swallows. 

"Harold was," Graces continues, still holding light. "He was a runner. But I think it was something ingrained, you know? He would never tell me much about his childhood but I bet he had to get up at the crack of dawn so often he couldn't sleep much past that anymore, not even if he wanted to."

There is something wretchedly awful about hearing these intimacies from their life together, knowing that Harold is listening. It's wrong to be learning things that Harold has chosen not to tell him, from someone who is grieving for him.

Grace obviously feels a little vulnerable, too. She hunches her shoulders and nods towards the field. "Can I go walk over there? I need to stretch my legs before we get in the car again." 

John gives the area a professional once-over: there are a few scrubby trees on the other side of the road, but the area is clear and flat. He could be there inside a minute if anyone appeared on the road.

"Sure," he said. "Don't go past the trees, though." 

While she's out of earshot, he opens a line to Harold. "You awake?" 

"Did you not hear all about my predisposition for early mornings, Mr Reese?" Harold's voice is dry – not the dry sarcasm that John knows is Harold's way of expressing affection but a tight, formal dryness that Harold uses as a shield. 

"Stop it," says John. He doesn't have space on this mission to indulge Harold's emotional mind games. "That kind of bullshit is going to put Grace in danger. I'm with her; I'm going to hear about things that you might not want me to know. Get over it or send Shaw to relieve me." 

There's a long pause on the line. "I'm sorry," said Harold. "Thank you for protecting her. I know that she will be safe with you. And yes, I realise this is uncomfortable for both of us. " 

It hasn't been too bad, John almost says, then he thinks about how that sounds, and he bites back the words. It's true though. Travelling with Grace hasn't been uncomfortable, her company is pleasant, and she has shown surprising endurance and flexibility for someone new to being danger. There hasn't exactly been that crisp distance that comes from protecting a stranger, either: even though their connection is unspoken, they have a shared knowledge of one very important person in their lives, someone they both love. John wonders if she suspects that he knows Harold – knew Harold, he reminds himself. He needs to keep it in the past tense. 

He pulls his mind back to the mission. "Do you have any idea about where we should be heading? I'm pointed towards the border, but I can swing around and back to the city if you want." 

Grace is walking through the sparse field opposite. She slipped between the wire strands of the sagging fence with an experienced manoeuvre that identifies her as someone used to hiking in the countryside. After pacing up and down the uneven ground, she turns to face John and gives him a little wave. After he waves back, she whips a notebook out of one pocket, a pencil from another, then works busily, her hand moving freely over the paper with wide gestures. 

Harold was still speaking in John's ear. "It's a little more difficult to arrange a new identity now that Samaritan is everywhere, but I have a few that I've kept for Grace in the eventuality that my work would put her in danger even at this distance. I'm arranging a new employment opportunity for one of those identities. Heading for the border is the best plan for now." 

"I can do that," says John. Realistically, it's the best option for Grace, he tells himself, while Grace stands in the middle of the field and draws. "We'll be on the road again pretty soon." He's been ready to go for a while, actually, but this place is isolated enough for Grace to get some fresh air before they are trapped in a car for hours. He slips behind the wheel, backs neatly out of position then pulls a U-turn on the road so that the passenger side is closest to Grace. 

"Break time's over?" she says. She's smiling, but there are shadows under her eyes, bruise blue on her pale skin. John wants suddenly to tell her that this nightmare is over, and that her home is safe and will be so forever. He can't, so he simply leans across and pops open the door. 

"For now," he says. He passes her a folded blanket from the back seat: there was a sample picnic basket there to demonstrate the idyllic family life that comes with a car like this, complete with plastic fruit, empty wine bottle and a tartan rug. "Try to get some sleep. I'll wake you when it's time for breakfast." 

Grace unfolds it and drapes it neatly across her lap. "This is cozy," she says. "I'll pretend we're on one of those fifties road trips in a big old Cadillac. You'll wear a black derby and I'll have fifteen petticoats and the whole world will be a perfectly pastel ad for the motoring age." 

John pulls onto the freeway. "And billboards for Burma Shave?" he says. 

Grace laughs, and leans her head against the headrest. "When do you sleep?" she said. "Should I offer to drive for a bit?" 

John shakes his head. "Hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet," he says. "I won't need to stop for a while yet." 

Grace is watching him; he can feel it without turning his head to check. "What?" he says, into the silence. 

"Just wondering who you are," says Grace. She turns on her side and curls her legs up under the blanket. "My questions should be more pointed, I know, like, why is this happening to me? Why are people trying to abduct or kill me, and where did you come from, out of the blue, to rescue me? But what I want to know is who you are – you're not a cop, don't even show me that pretend badge." She reaches out to touch his elbow, reassuringly. "Don't worry. I believe you about this threat, and I believe that you're keeping me out of danger. I just wonder how you got to be the kind of man who knows these things: how to avoid security cameras, how to rip the GPS out of cars, how to drive all night on alert. Knows exactly how long he can keep doing all this without sleep." 

John doesn't know what to say, so he drives and thinks. When he glances back again, Grace is tucked under the blanket, still turned in his direction, but with eyes closed and her breathing regular. In his earpiece, Harold sensibly remains silent. 

It's four or five hours on straight roads after that, avoiding town centres and stopping at the most rundown of places. John changes cars again – an early Audi coupe, someone's weekend treasure – and they're eating up the miles towards the border. 

John feels that prickle of sweat he gets from adrenaline bursts before his brain registers that something is wrong. He pulls the car off the road, slowly, so slowly, and holds up his phone as if he's taking a call. On the overpass, drivers are hanging out of their cars, waving phones, trying to get a shot of something he can't see yet. 

"Taking a detour," he says into the earpiece, as softly as he can, for Grace's sake as much as security. Then he hauls the car onto the service road and down a narrow wooded track, speeding up as soon as they're out of sight from above. 

There's no answer, but John knows that at the other end of the line, Harold is working equally hard, trying to determine what's ahead. 

The back tires slide out on the next corner and Grace startles out of her doze with a shriek, clutching at the safety belt that has snapped tight on her chest. John puts out his arm to hold her in place as he slews the Audi fast round a steep hairpin, and that's when he sees the drone through the foliage, flying in the distance, low and quiet on four rotors. 

"Drone," he says, for Harold's benefit, but Grace leans forward, peers through the windscreen, looking for the thing. Around the next corner, a large branch covers half the road. John swings the car out of the way so they don't clip it, but that's too much for a city car: the little Audi slides on the loose surface. One side of the car lifts and the scenery tilts by thirty degrees as they fly along on two wheels. The momentum sends Grace slamming into John's body. 

"It's okay," he keeps saying, while he's wrestling with the wheel and the weight of the car, trying to keep them upright. "Hold still, it's okay." 

The car comes down back on four wheels, but one tire blows and then another, and then they're travelling on rims, juddering along the dirt road. John brakes carefully again and again until the Audi slides to a halt. 

They both sit there a moment, breathless. John somehow has his arm around Grace's shoulders, holding her to his side. 

"You okay?" they both say at the same time, then Grace laughs, shaky. 

John takes her face in his hands, runs his fingertips over her hairline looking for bruises. "You didn't hit your head?" 

"Nope." Grace allows this examination, watching him at the same time. "What happens now? Do you know where we are?" 

Harold chooses this time to pipe up. "I have your approximate location plotted, Mr Reese. Will you be able to drive out?" 

John gets out and examines the car. The wheel rims have cut inches deep into the dirt. John could dig it out, but the longer they stay in one location, the more risk there is to Grace. 

"I could with time," he says. "But I'd rather get clear of this site now." 

There's typing in his ear. "There's not much around," Harold says, slowly. "Wait – I'm checking police reports, and there was a raid on an illegal cannabis site a month ago." 

Harold is nothing if not thorough. John considers it. A month is long enough for the police presence to fade but not so long that the growers will have taken it over again. "How far?" Grace is watching him talk now, her face wary. They need to get moving. 

"Four miles," Harold says. "I'm sending you directions now. I can follow up with a car in a few hours if… authorities have turned their attention elsewhere." 

The map, when it comes, is a photograph drawn in notepaper that John recognises from the library. That gives him an unexpected pinch of emotion he can't identify. Homesickness, maybe? He memorises the layout, by which time Grace has opened her door and extracted herself from the car which, on two flats, sits a few inches lower than it had originally. 

"That's not good," she says, poking one with her toe. "Do you want me to go find some branches? Could give it some traction so you can drive out again."

John pops the trunk and gathers his arsenal-in-a-bag, stuffs in a couple of water bottles, and from the back seat grabs the tartan blanket. "It will take too long. I don't want us stuck here if they come searching." 

"Okay," said Grace, sounding the word out long, suspicious. "Where can we go? There isn't much out here." 

"Have you ever been hiking?" John slings the bag over his shoulder and turns Grace in the right direction. There's no path, as such, but he can see a track further into the brush.

An hour later, they are making progress, heading gently uphill, though the forest is thick and filled with undergrowth, tree falls and boulders. The tracks that weave through the trees are narrow, fading and out of existence with little notice. John is glad of Harold's map, and also of the compass from his bag, which keeps them pointed towards their destination. 

"I don't really like hiking," Grace says at their first pitstop, an hour away from the car. She sits on a fallen tree with her ankles crossed. "There's a reason I moved to New York. I like a metropolis. I like buildings." She passes the water bottle back to him and he takes a sip then screws the lid back on and pushes it into his bag. 

"You ready to get going?" he asks. He is pushing them both harder than Grace is likely accustomed to walking, but he wants them under cover as soon as possible. He has no idea how many drones Samaritan can deploy at once. He hopes they don't have to hike all the way out of the forest. What they really need is a chopper. What they really need is for Samaritan to give them some breathing space. 

"Yep," says Grace with false joviality. "I'm bushwhacking through uncharted forest with a man and a bag of guns. There's no way this is not going to end in murder and death." She gives him a grim smile. "You're lucky I get a good vibe off of you, John. Not every girl would go this far into the woods with a stranger." 

"We're not really strangers anymore," John says, and feels the connection between them crystallise into solidity. By saying it, he makes it true: they're not strangers. They were strangers when they went on the run, but they've been in close proximity for nearly a day and things are different. 

Grace pushes her hair out of her eyes again, takes a deep breath and shakes her legs. Her hair falls immediately back in her face, and John sees her press her lips together. She's tired and frustrated and afraid, and her resilience will only go so far. He slides the bag off his shoulder, rests it on the tree beside her, and rummages in it for his cleaning kit. The cotton swabs inside are kept neatly gathered by a hair elastic, bright pink with plastic Hello Kitty bobbles. He'd found it in a bar once, and snuck it into Shaw's kit for a laugh. She'd snuck it right back a week later, and they'd continued to shift it back and forth while trying to keep their gear hidden. At least this will end the cycle, he thinks and passes it to Grace. 

She laughs weakly at the ridiculousness of it. "It's so you, though, John," she says, as she pulls her hair back into a ponytail. 

They stop twice more along the path, at roughly hourly intervals. Coming into the fourth hour, Grace has stopped chatting, hasn't really said a word since the last breather. John has her walking ahead, because the biggest risk is going to come from the rear. He can see she's getting footsore from the way she's walking, up on her toes for a while to spare her heels, hissing quietly when she comes down hard on a rock or her shoe snags on a stick. He's about to suggest they stop and bivouac at the suitable site when Grace turns a corner and comes across police tape. 

She spins on her heel and stares at him, horrified. "Is this a murder scene? Do we need to talk about bringing girls to your murder sites, John?" 

"No!" says John. "No, it was a drug bust. Marijuana." 

Grace opens her mouth to protest, and then her shoulders sag. "I guess beggars can't be choosers," she says, instead. Then she brightens. "Oh, well. Maybe there's leftovers. I could use a little chemical relaxation." 

There are no leftovers, apart from a funky smell in some of the cabins. There are cabins, though, and while there's no power or running water, John thinks he can make them comfortable there for a while if he has to. There's an open-sided shed which obviously served as a gathering point for the growers, with stools fashioned from large pieces of wood arranged around the fireplace, and a cast-iron pot still hanging over the grate. 

"This is more like the camping I've done," Grace says. "I'll go find some kindling so we can light a fire when it gets dark." 

John hopes they're not still here by dusk, but he keeps an eye on her as she wanders along the trees while he shakes down the rest of the cabins. There's no way the cops found every stash of food here, not when the growers were surrounded by pot every day. He comes back to the shed with an armful of junk food: oreos, goldfish crackers, corn chips, half a pack of twinkies, and a head-sized jar of Nutella that he feels certain was forgotten because the seal is intact. Grace is crouched by the fireplace carefully poking kindling between the logs she's piled in there, and when she sees the giant jar of Nutella in John's arms she starts to giggle uncontrollably. 

"Don't laugh yet," says John. "There's no spoon." He is having another one of those disturbing moments where he wants to tell Harold how lucky he is to love Grace, how Grace is strong and resilient and always able to find joy in her circumstances. He hopes Harold knows this already, but he's starting to wonder.

As it happens, he has a spoon in his mess kit. He gives it to Grace, who wriggles her feet while she sips from the water bottle. "How are your feet?" 

Grace groans. She tears the foil off the jar, and sniffs the Nutella. "I don't know," she says. "I figure I'm not going to look until I absolutely have to. How are we getting out of here? Please say we're getting out of here – I don't want to live on an old pot farm forever." She sits with her back to the brick wall that holds the fireplace, and her feet elevated on an overturned milk crate. 

"It would be pretty good cover," John says. He sits near her, tears open the bag of goldfish and eats them one at a time. Grace scooches over and grabs a handful, dipping them into the Nutella. She passes every second one back to John. 

Harold takes advantage of the quiet to speak in John's ear. John's glad he doesn't have to explain that Grace is leaning against him right now, dreamily dipping crackers into a giant tub of Nutella. 

"The drones are otherwise occupied," Harold says, with typical circumspection. 

John snickers. "I almost feel sorry for the drones," he says. 

"No robots were harmed, I promise," said Harold. "I bribed a few privacy groups to stage a protest, and then gave it a bump on Twitter." He does sound pleased with himself. "It is going to be difficult for our enemy to carry out any covert operations in this area. For some time. Meanwhile, I've despatched Ms Shaw with a replacement vehicle, but she is still several hours away. I realise this isn't ideal."

"We're secure for now," says John. When Grace looks up at him, he points to his earpiece and mouths, "The boss." She raises her eyebrows in mock-alarm and keeps eating his goldfish. "Though a place with walls would be better for a longer stay. Recharge some devices, eat a meal that doesn't come in plastic bags." He hopes Finch picks up on the cues: Grace is fine for now, but she can't maintain this pace forever. 

"Absolutely. Do you have a border crossing in mind or should I organise it?" 

John nudges Grace upright so he can stand without disturbing her. He walks a little distance from her so he can talk freely. "I've got a contact who runs cigarettes through the Akwesasne reservation. I've left a message for her, I doubt it will be a problem." After what he'd done for Yvonne's son, she'd happily move a bus full of people across the border at John's request. 

There's a silence for a moment, presumably while Harold fills in some gaps in his background research. "Ah," he says. "I see. I assume your contact is a Ms Dubé, who operates from Cornwall Island. I have a place where you can stop on the way, just outside Helena, in the Brasher Falls state forest. I'll arrange for it to be made ready." He pauses again. "Grace is all right?" 

John glances over his shoulder, to where Grace is watching him with narrowed eyes. "She's tired," he said. "She's pushing through it, but she won't be able to maintain this pace, not without slowing us down. And…" He stops, uncertain of how to words this in a way that Harold will understand. And not get angry about. 

"Mr Reese?" Harold says, concern in his voice. 

"I don't think she likes all this planning behind her back," he says, eventually.

There's another long silence, but this time John feels the stillness on the other end of the line. He can imagine Harold's expression, based on the quality of that silence: thin-lipped, cold-eyed, frightened and angry at the same time. 

"I know you don't want me to talk about this," John says, expecting Harold to cut into the conversation with something blistering. 

Instead, he just sounds tired. "I understand your concerns, John, I do. Please don't think me dismissive when I say that I've known Grace for a long time. I know the best way to settle this without hurting her." 

People change. Grace is not the person she was back then. John wants to say it out loud, but now is obviously not the time. "It's your call, Finch. Give me a buzz when Shaw's getting close."

Grace is still watching him, suspicious, when he walks back to the fireplace. "Did you make all kinds of strategies and plans?" she asked, then sees something in his face that softens her tone. She reaches out to touch his hand. "Are you getting in trouble on my behalf?"

John shakes his head. He doesn't want Grace to get the impression that the people who are keeping her alive are bickering. "There's some stuff I can't talk about – like how we're crossing the border, for instance. And, yeah, we're having some debate on how that should be done, but that's how we come up with the best plan." His confident statement is somewhat diminished by the way he kicks a stone right out of the campsite and into the trees. 

Grace offers him the Nutella jar, her expression solemn. "I think you need this more than me." 

It's well past noon when John's earpiece wakes up again to warn him Shaw is close by. Grace is dozing by the cold fireplace, wrapped in the blanket stolen from the Scranton car yard. John has been patrolling the grounds, restless and unsettled by the quiet. When he hears the crunch of tires on dirt, he waits at the point where the access road opens out on the campsite, gun drawn. He sees Shaw in a Mercedes that lumbers heavily up the track, steps out with his hand up in greeting, and then goes to wake Grace. 

Shaw brings the car to a halt – it bounces on the shock absorbers when she puts on the parking brake – and gets out. She tosses the keys to John. 

"That thing is a freaking tank," she says, walking past him to the fireplace. "Handles like a whale but you can drive right over an IED." She rummages in the pile of junk food. "This all you got to eat?" 

Still blinking, Grace stares at Shaw for a moment then waves a hand. "Hi again," she says, hesitant. "We have Nutella." She offers up the jar and Shaw snatches it out of her hands. 

"Use your own spoon," John says, slinging his gear into the back seat. "You want us to drop you off?"

Shaw doesn't bother with a spoon. She gouges out a huge fingerful of Nutella and crams it in her mouth. "Nah, I got a ride home," she says thickly. "Tailed me all the way but I managed to lose her in the forest." 

John can hear another engine now, a low hum that occasionally becomes laboured and high-pitched. A gold and black motorcycle emerges out of the trees. It's sleek and futuristic but the bodywork has some ugly scratches, and the rider is splattered with mud all down one side. Root pulls off her helmet and shakes out her hair, but the cinematic effect is spoiled by her expression of rage. She kicks the stand down on the bike and storms over to where Shaw is still licking Nutella off her fingers. 

"That was unnecessary!" She is inches away from Shaw's face. Shaw shoves her Nutella-coated fingers in Root's mouth, and Root splutters in outrage. 

"You ready to go?" John says to Grace who is watching the two women in amazement. He helps her get upright, lets her lean on him when her feet protest, and helps her to the car. 

"Are they always like that?" she says, settling into her seat with a sigh. 

John takes one last look at Root and Shaw, where the fight is devolving into something much stickier. "There's usually less Nutella," he says, and walks round to the driver's side.


	2. Chapter 2

That evening, crossing back into New York State as they head for the border, Harold directs them to the safehouse. It's right on the edge of a state forest, and John drives through pine plantations to get there. Grace is exhausted, he can tell from the quiet in the car, and the way she tips her head back against the rest. She rouses enough energy to be delighted as they pass through the growing field for a Christmas tree farm – "Oh, they're just babies now! Look at them, all in rows!" – but otherwise she spends most of the drive curled under the blanket, watching the wilderness zoom past. 

The safehouse is nestled into the hills, with a high-peaked roof like a Swiss chalet. Once John has cleared the place, he parks in the garage and helps Grace inside. There's a general consistency to Harold's safehouses: he has maintenance companies come regularly to clean and air them, as well as stock them up when needed. He's had twenty-four hours to have staff get this place into a liveable state, so there's a fire roaring in the stone fireplace, and a cooked meal waiting in the kitchen. Grace's suitcase is sitting in the main bedroom, and her folio leaning against it. She cries out when she sees that, and unzips it a little, flipping through the contents with her fingertips to make sure it's all there. 

"Everything okay?" John says from the top of the stairs. 

Grace nods, a little tearful with weariness now that they've stopped moving. She swipes a sleeve across her eyes. "I hadn't even thought about it, but it's such a relief. Not just the art, actually. I'm also very happy to see clean underwear." 

"I know the feeling," says John. "I'll leave you to get settled in. I'm just downstairs." 

Grace nods and shuts the bedroom door, and John waits till he hears the shower, then pads down the spiral staircase. He likes the solidity of this house, especially this defensible upper level. The security system is, of course, top notch, giving him a wide view of the property, which despite being in forest has a good clear margin surrounding the house itself. It would be easy to see any approach, bar rappelling down from a chopper, and in that case, there's a hidden access tunnel via the wine cellar to a secondary site with a getaway car. 

He's making coffee in the kitchen when he hears Grace's scream – a shriek of fright and surprise cut suddenly short. He goes up the spiral staircase in three short jumps, helped by using the wrought iron bannister as a climbing frame. He shoulders into Grace's room, gun out and low, and pulls Grace behind him, shoving her into a corner so that any bullets go through him before they touch her. 

The room is empty. John sweeps his gun arm across from door to wall, reassuring himself. There's nobody here but Grace. 

Behind him, Grace is statue-still, hardly breathing. After a moment, she says, very softly, "It was a spider." 

He turns to make sure she really is in one piece and unhurt. She touches his chest, words spilling out in rapid, nervous sentences.

"I'm not usually bothered by them, but this guy was huge and he came running out when I picked up my case. I'm pretty sure he was more scared of me than I was of him." She bites her lip, feeling the tension in his body. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to cry wolf." 

John teeters on a decision: the professional thing to do is to step away, tell her it's no problem, holster his weapon and get on with that coffee. What he really wants is to hold her, make certain she's safe. Eventually he does that: wraps his arm around her and pulls her close while his breathing settles. 

Though this is hardly typical bodyguard behaviour, Grace waits, patient and still until he's ready to move again. At the same time he realises that this house is alive with cameras and Harold is will be watching them both, she gives him a chagrined smile.

"Uh, John, do you know that joke? You know, 'What's eight legged and hairy with big fangs?'"

John gazes down at her for a moment, confused, then he remembers the punch line and he jumps backwards looking for the spider on his body. To his appalled horror, it's halfway up his thigh, climbing intrepidly for the folds of his jacket. He slaps at it and it falls to the ground then scurries forward towards him again. John gives it the eye, but it has a biological advantage there.

Before he can stomp his foot down, Grace intervenes, tipping the potpourri out of a glass bowl and catching the spider in it. She covers the opening with her palm, but the sides of the bowl are slippery and the spider stands in the middle. John's fairly sure it's giving him the eye in return. Many eyes. 

Grace walks carefully down the stairs. "He doesn't want to be here any more than us. Least we can do for him is put him back where he's comfortable. If a little rose-scented." She sniffs the bowl while John watches aghast: what if the damn thing leaps up her nostril? How can he explain that to Harold? 

Nonetheless, he walks her all the way out of the house to the low hedge lining the driveway, where she crouches down and releases her prisoner. "There you go, little guy, go make a new home out there." 

When they walk back to the house, it's companionable even though John is on high alert. Grace hooks her arm through his and gives it a shake. "Look at you, six foot plus, armed to the teeth, and frightened of a little bitty spider." 

"Have you seen the spiders in Iraq?" he says, sternly. "You want to know why they're called camel spiders?" 

"I'm guessing it's not because they ride camels, is it?" 

"Grace, they _eat_ the camels," John says. 

Grace snorts, a rude sound in the quiet darkness. "You have to tell me scary stuff because I heard you make that noise." 

"What noise?" John says, not smiling at all. "I was completely silent." 

"I would call it a panicked scream," says Grace. "But if that was coffee I could smell from the kitchen, I'd be prepared to forget I ever heard it." 

There is coffee, and, after some exploration of the kitchen, Grace is delighted to discover freshly baked bread and a meal to serve it with, sitting next to a bottle of wine. She tears a piece off the loaf and crams it into her mouth, then points to the wine. 

John eschews the wine. "Not for me," he says, setting cutlery on the table. "You should definitely have some." 

"Champlain Valley," Grace says, chewing and reading the label on the bottle. "It's so beautiful up there. Have you ever been?" 

"No." John shakes his head. "Not for a holiday, anyway." No need to explain why he'd been in Vermont that time. It wasn't to tour the wineries. 

Graces breaks the seal on the wine and pours. "We had a week up there in the fall." She doesn't need to say that she means her and Harold. She takes a sip, her face troubled. "It's nice your friend did his research," she says, though her expression doesn't reflect the compliment. "Between you and me, though? It's a little creepy." 

Harold is so present in this kitchen, John's chest aches: it's the closest he's felt to Harold in the past two weeks. If he were here, Harold would be standing there, by the door to the basement, where he'd have a good view into the dining room, and where he could lean against the solid wood of the door if his hip was grumbling. There's a vent above the door. That has to be where Harold put the camera, John thinks, and then has to force himself not to look. Instead, he puts on novelty oven gloves cut in the shape of strawberries and gets the chicken pie out of the oven. 

Grace, her cheeks a little red even after one glass, giggles. "Oh no, it's deadly strawberry hands! Whatever shall I do?" 

John put the pie down on a trivet, resists the ridiculous urge to pinch her with the strawberry glove, and reaches for her plate. 

Later, they sit in the living room while Grace flicks through the vintage vinyl. "I'm trying to figure out if it's here because it's hipster, or if it's here because it's uncool." She cocks her head at the flying china ducks above the mantelpiece. "I have to say I am still undecided." 

"Put one on," John says, and nods towards the record player. He's sitting on the sofa, elbows propped on his knees, while she's cross-legged by the fireplace. 

He didn't have any wine, but Grace's slightly frenetic mood is catching. He doesn't feel like himself, not like himself on a job, anyway. He catches himself wanting to say the kind of thing he'd say to Harold: gentle teasing, mock outrage in response to her gentle teasing. Harold should be here, he wants to say to her. Harold filled this house with your favourite food and wine. He stuffed it with rose petals and pillows and music, everything to make you comfortable. He did all this because he blames himself for putting you in danger, and because of it, he has to work through proxies to protect you.

Later, when Grace is sleeping upstairs, John cleans up the kitchen, sorting the dishes and putting the rest of the pie in the refrigerator while he and Harold share notes. 

"Now that Grace is safe from immediate threat, I have more time to assemble her new identity," says Harold. "I still think she needs to leave the country, and she'll enjoy living in Europe. She's always wanted to." 

John folds the dishcloth and hangs it neatly off the kitchen faucet. He faces his own reflection in the window over the sink and imagines he's talking to Harold in person. "How about we ask what Grace wants to do?" 

It's a measure of how much this mission has rattled John that he'd speak like this to Harold. There's a long silence on the other end of the line, but John refuses to feel bad about it. He's learned too much about Grace to convince himself that she would want her future decided for her without consultation. 

Eventually Harold speaks, and John can hear how he's capped the anger and frustration he is obviously feeling. "If I thought Grace had the expertise to make a safe decision, I would. But this is not her world – it's ours. I would never expect – I would never want her to know the things we have had to do to save people." 

A simmering anger John didn't know he was holding back finally overflows. "Listen to yourself, Harold! You're talking about her like you talk about a child. She's an adult, and a pretty damn functional one, too. Look at the way she's taken all this in her stride – she understands she's in danger, she recognises that I'm keeping her safe. I can't count the number of people I've had to protect who saw me as an impediment, tried to get away from me, made my job more difficult and made it easier for them to be hurt. Grace figured all that out in five minutes. I think she'll be okay with an honest discussion of her own future." 

He can hear Harold on the other end of the line, and it's not the comforting reassurance of keyboard tapping, it's the sound of fidgeting: a clatter of pens and the creak of screen holders as Harold rearranges his desk. 

"If something happened to her," Harold starts, and John interrupts. 

"Something could happen any time," he says. "It's not fair to wrap her in cotton wool without even telling her. Don't you wonder what she'll make of all this, if you're able to be with her again?" Never mind what that would mean for the physical relationship that he and Harold have never spoken about. John wonders suddenly what would happen if Grace did come back into Harold's life. Would he and Harold talk about that? Or would he just be gone one day? 

"You know that will never happen," Harold says. "How can it? The risk to her, if people knew I had such a vulnerability…" 

"Is that why we're fucking instead, Harold? Because you've deemed me to be more able to manage the risks of sleeping with you?" The words spit out of John's mouth without a thought. He should regret saying them, but somehow, fatigue and worry and the weeks since he's actually been anywhere near Harold seem to have eroded his self-control on the matter. 

"I…" Harold is actually struck silent by this. 

John breathes deeply and rests his head against the cool metal door of the refrigerator. "I need to get some sleep," he says, and hangs up. He doesn't apologise, and he doesn't acknowledge the camera he knows is hidden in the air vent. 

He showers, unzips the luggage he knew would be in the spare room, and changes into sweats. Then he grabs his cleaning kit and pads quietly down the stairs so as not to wake Grace. He'll clean his gear, do one last patrol around the house, and then sleep on the sofa. And he won't make eye contact with any of Harold's cameras. 

When he's done cleaning weapons and checking the perimeters, John banks the fire so it will last the night, and unfolds one of the blankets stacked on the window seat. It's soft and fine between his fingers, probably angora or some rare and expensive fibre he's never heard of. It's big enough to cover the length of him, though, and he kicks off his shoes then stretches out on the sofa. There's a ritual to bodyguarding solo: he has a relaxation exercise to count through, that will let him slip into the half-sleep that will suffice while he's on a mission. 

The sound of movement upstairs wakes him, fast enough that he's standing, gun in hand, when Grace comes down the steps. She gives a soft squeak when she sees him with his gun, but shuts her eyes and visibly pulls herself together. 

When she speaks, her voice is calm again. "I'm sorry; I should know better than to go creeping in the dark when you're already on edge." She's wearing oversized pyjamas, and wrapped in a battered pink robe. 

"It's okay," John says, eventually. "Everything is fine. Did you need something?" 

Grace shakes her head. "I couldn't sleep – I thought I'd try the hot milk thing. You want some?" They're both talking in lowered voices even thought they're the only ones in the house, standing in the flickering light of the fireplace. 

"No," says John. "But I'll stay while you make it." Things got over-familiar over dinner, and he wants to rein that back in. This mission is complex enough with the mire of secrets Harold has wound around Grace's life. Add in the tension of the weird not-quite relationship he's been juggling with Harold, and it's a recipe for disaster if he's not careful. Grace is an asset, and his mission is to protect her. 

He helps her find a saucepan, mugs, cutlery, and while she's stirring the milk, he unloads the dishwasher, puts the clean dishes away. 

Grace smiles while she's watching her saucepan. "You're a rare bird, doing that," she says. "I hope there's a lucky someone waiting for you back home." 

Nope. Not even acknowledging that one. John opens the pantry, scans the various tea and coffee options. He proffers a tin of Sleepytime Cocoa, with a picture of a dozing bear on the label. "You want to try this?" he says. 

"Eeek," says Grace. "Sorry, that was too personal. Forget I even said it." She takes the tin and reads the ingredients while she keeps the milk moving. "Spices, vanilla powder… dehydrated honey? I'm horrified and yet fascinated. But I guess, considering the circumstances, I ought to live dangerously." 

John pushes a mug towards her and she fills it with hot milk, then stirs in a few heaped spoons of Sleepytime Cocoa. She sips it tentatively at first, then with more enthusiasm. There are great shadows under her red-rimmed eyes, her nose is glowing and it's obvious she's been crying up in her room. 

"You were in the army, weren't you?" Grace says into the quiet of the dim room. "That's how you know what you're doing with guns and car chases." She stares down into her cup, where drifts of foam bubbles disperse and reform into random shapes. 

John doesn't want to talk about himself, not with Grace and not with Harold probably listening still, so he stands up, rummages in the well-stocked pantry and finds a tin of cookies. He pries the tin open and offers them to Grace. 

She selects one; it's chocolate chip, shaped like a bone. "They're like fancy doggie treats," she says, then laughs weakly when John, horrified he's given her something for pets, checks the label on the tin. "Do you have a dog? Please tell me something about you. I feel like I'm the only real person in the world right now."

John has seen desperate expressions like this on people as they drown. "I do have a dog; his name is Bear." 

"Cute," says Grace. She dips her cookie in the cocoa, and it immediately breaks off. That is apparently the last straw for Grace, because she gulps back a sob. It turns into a hiccup, and then she's crying, unselfconsciously, resting her forehead in her hand. 

"You're probably wondering why I haven't asked too many questions about all this but to be honest, it's not a surprise. I'm the kind of person that this sort of thing happens to. It's just – for a while after the bombing, I kept wondering what I did to deserve this," she says through gasping sobs. "It made more sense than Harold not being here. Or Harold dying. Sometimes I wish – you've been to war, maybe you know this kind of thing about bombs – I just want someone to tell me he didn't suffer. I hope it was quick."

Despite her name, Grace does not cry gracefully. She pulls a crumpled Kleenex from her sleeve and blows her nose noisily. 

John watches her breaking to pieces in front of him, then he reaches for his earpiece and switches it off. While Grace is still crying, he drags a chair to the doorway, stands on it and flips open the air vent. The camera inside is flashing red at him, and as he pulls it from the housing, John feels Harold's desperate panic as he is deliberately shut out of the conversation. From John's position on the chair, he gives the kitchen a professional once over – probably no more cameras, even allowing for Finch-level paranoia – then steps down. 

When he first stands on the chair, between her hiccupping sobs Grace watches him like he's lost his senses. When he steps down with the camera, her forehead clenches in a frown. 

"Was your boss watching this?" she says, voice still thick from crying. She snatches the camera from him and stares down the lens, gloriously angry with her red nose and swollen eyes. 

"Hey! You know what, Mr Knowitall? You're a coward. Sitting wherever you are, nice and safe, listening to me cry while I try to keep my head together, away from my home, away from my friends. You can go to hell." She punctuates this with an alarming sniff-hiccup, then throws the camera right across the kitchen and into the sink. 

John raises his eyebrows. "Good shot," he says, having little else to say. Despite his argument with Harold earlier, that was a harsh thing to have shouted in his face. 

"Artists," says Grace, through her teeth. "Don't mess with our sense of perspective." She considers John. "I'm grateful for what you've done. I don't understand why I was in danger, but I was, and you kept me safe. But I don't like your boss, and I don't like this…" she makes an airy gesture at the empty bottle of wine, "Weird velvet box that he imagines is going to make me happy." She stands up, brushes down her fuzzy robe, and straightens her shoulders. "What do you say we run away to a cheap motel and get a pizza? Maybe a beer?" She gives him an arch look, deliberately ridiculous, with her messy hair and puffy eyes. "I can be pretty good company with a couple of beers inside me." 

John's smile comes easily, and he can't stop a small laugh. Grace is phenomenally courageous, and so determinedly her own person. "You're pretty good company now. And tempting as your offer is, I have a job here, and it's to make sure you're safe." 

"I'm bored of safe!" Grace shouts at him. "Maybe you don't get that – I don't have a lot to lose these days, and yeah, I can guess you've probably been in some dire situations, much worse than whatever is happening in my life right now, so I'm sorry if you think this is self-pity or something." 

"I would never…" John starts to speak but Grace cuts him off. 

"… I had to go to an emergency triage centre that day," she says. John doesn't have to ask what day that was. "I heard about the explosion, I was there inside an hour of it happening, and it was chaos. There were bodies, there was blood and people screaming, and I knew Harold was in there somewhere, confused, maybe in pain, maybe." She swiped her eyes angrily. "After they told me that if he wasn't there, then he was dead, well. I cried a bit, then I stopped. Didn't know what to feel or do. In grief counselling, they talk about this protective numbness, you know? It's not a good numbness, though. You know something really bad is happening, but you can't feel it and that is horrible. There's no being safe, not after that. You stop being afraid of anything." 

John remembers that long walk up to the nurse's station in New Rochelle, the feeling of unreality overtaking him despite his bullet wound, despite the distance he'd travelled to find Jessica. He knows what Grace is talking about, and so he stays very still, hopes desperately that she can't see it.

Grace is an artist, though, and her eyes are keen. She steps closer to John, and her anger disappears. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry." She reaches for him, slowly and carefully so as not to startle him, and he should pull away, he should move, get away from this. He can't, though. What Grace is talking about, that cold numbness, is creeping all the way over him like a thin shell of ice that holds him still. Grace touches his cheek, her fingers warm and gentle, and he blinks, is surprised not to hear the crackle of ice shattering. He takes a breath, and it hurts deep down in his chest. This is wrong, he tells himself. It's his job to care for Grace, not she for him. 

Grace leans his head against her chest and puts her chin on his head. She's warm, and her ridiculous robe is pastel pink, and John closes his eyes, lets her envelop him. 

"Look at us," says Grace. John can hear her voice through her body. "Both of us hiding bruises from the world, and what do I do? Poke you right where it hurts. I'm sorry, John." 

Harold is alive. The words would be so easy to say to her, John can feel his mouth starting to shape them. Instead, he breathes steadily, leans the weight of his head against Grace and reaches up to wrap fingers around her wrist. Then, gently, so that he doesn't shove her, so that she knows he's not pushing her away, he stands up. 

"You need to sleep," he says. "I need to know you're safe. How about we drag some blankets down here by the fire, and doze?" He's somehow holding her hands folded inside his own. 

Grace nods. "I'll go grab blankets from upstairs," she says. 

John arranges the living room, pushing the furniture aside, and stokes up the fire so that it's burning merrily. Grace throws pillows over the balcony, and drags armfuls of blankets and quilts down the stairs. John gets them settled on the thick plush carpet in front of the fire, propped with mountains of pillows and a sea of blankets covering their bodies. There's a quiet between them now, like the stillness of a room where everyone has gathered for safety while a storm passes overhead. They're not exactly lying together, but their feet touch under the covers.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=28qrv9e)

Eventually John hears Grace breathing softly in her sleep. He watches her for a while, checks the external security on his phone, and drifts off himself.

That's how they are in the morning when there's a crunch of gravel and the sound of an engine outside. There's cold grey light coming in the windows, and the fire is low in the grate. John is awake and at the window in a moment. He reaches for binoculars to identify the driver just as his phone buzzes. 

"No need to raise the alarm," Harold's voice is dry and a little fatigued. He must have driven through the night to be here so quickly after their last conversation. He's going to be sorry tomorrow, John thinks, when he's aching to the bone from all the effort. 

Grace is still sleeping, curled under the blankets like the last person to leave a sleepover. John hears Harold carefully reverse the car in next to the armoured Mercedes, and he walks over to sit down beside Grace's pillow. 

"Grace," he says, softly, and touches her shoulder through the blanket. She doesn't wake fast, he knows that now. He waits while she blinks herself back into awareness. "Grace, wake up." 

Grace turns over, pulls the blankets up over her shoulder and blinks at him. "Hey," she says. "Is everything ok?" 

John realises he doesn't know the answer to that question. "We're secure – there's no threat. We have a visitor." He's breathing too fast. There's a terrifying silence in his ear, where Harold should be talking to him, telling him what to do and how to handle this. 

When he realises that Harold expects him to tell Grace what is happening, he feels nauseous. It occurs to him that he might be better at this relationship thing than Harold, and a manic bark of laughter escapes his throat. 

Grace can sense the dread or the anticipation, because she frowns, worried. "You okay?" she says, and sits up, the blanket over her shoulders. She holds one end open. "Come in here and be warm." 

John shifts himself across so he's pressed against her side, and he tucks the blanket over both of them. She loops her arm through his and leans her head against his shoulder. Her warmth radiates all the way to his skin through his clothes. His stomach is churning, and he's not sure if he can tell her this, but Harold still hasn't come in the door, so obviously it's what he wants. John shuts his eyes. 

"It's okay," says Grace. "We're friends now. Whatever it is, I won't be mad." 

"The reason I'm here," John starts, "has to do with Harold's work. His real work – not whatever he told you he did for a living." It could have been anything. John doesn't actually know what Harold's cover story was with Grace. Harold has so many cover stories and John knows he's only encountered a few.

"He was a software engineer," Grace says, suspicious suddenly, though she doesn't pull away or let go of John's arm. "What do you mean, his real work?" 

Okay, John could work with that. "His company had a lot of defence contracts. Those were highly secure situations, things he couldn't easily tell you about. And there was a certain amount of danger involved." 

Grace is listening very carefully now, and watching every expression. John sneaks a peek sideways; her expression is ferocious again, and he's not certain if it's directed at him or the world. 

"When the danger came very close to home, he realised that you were at risk, too." 

He sees it hit her, a stomach-dropping realisation. She rocks back, exhaling sharply, eyes gazing away into nothing. 

John is forcing the words out now. He doesn't want to say them, doesn't want to be the reason that it all goes wrong. This is a part of protecting Harold, he tells himself. It doesn't matter that it's difficult. What matters is that Harold is safe. "He… He wanted you to be safe…" 

"Is Harold alive?" Grace asks, bursting into his carefully constructed explanation. "Is it something like, I don't know, witness protection?" She cups his face in her hands, turns it to look into his eyes. "Tell me if he is alive, John." 

John's eyes flick to the door. "I work for him," he said. "I…" am probably in love with him, he doesn't add. Nor does he say, "We're lovers, but I'm not really sure if that's a good thing." Or, "I'm so sorry, we really let you down, both of us." 

Colour floods across Grace's cheeks, and she suddenly simmers with rage so potent that John recoils from her expression. He can't meet her eyes, not like that, so he stares down at his knuckles then at the carpet, where the thick pile has been brushed in all different directions by their feet and the blankets and Grace's luggage. 

Grace rises to her knees in front of him and gently tilts his head to look at her. Then she kisses his cheek and puts her forehead on his. When John blinks, he feels his eyelashes against her skin. 

"You are a good friend, John. I'm glad to know you. And I'm sorry that Harold left you to do the hard work for him." Then she stands, puts on her pink fuzzy robe and slippers, and storms out the front door. 

John is beside himself with confusion. He reaches for the door and hears Grace's voice, muffled through the wood. 

"And if I had known that you had the capacity for such selfish, weak cowardice when I met you, I would have turned around and walked home because right now, the only thing I can say is that I am ashamed of you." 

John steps away from the door, and goes to tidy the living room. 

They're still arguing when he comes down the stairs after making all the beds. It's Harold this time, his voice clipped and cutting. John knows that voice well; it's the one he uses when he is livid, when he's about to cut someone's life to pieces with a keyboard. 

"It was to keep you safe." 

The thought of Harold using that voice with Grace is enough to get John all the way to the door, the handle cold on his palm as he turns it. 

"Yes, thank you so very much for making decisions about my life without asking me," says Grace. "But I'm talking about what you did to John." 

John freezes. 

"Oh, I see you're an expert on John, now."

There's a sharp crack, then John is through the door, gun drawn, ready to get the two of them down and safe. There's nobody else here, though, just Grace and Harold staring at him, surprised. Harold has his palm pressed to his cheek, where a Grace-sized handprint is turning red. 

"No spiders this time," says Grace, cheerfully. "Just me and Harold working out some details." 

John glances from one to the other, uncertain of which he wants to protect right now. 

Harold closes his eyes and rubs his cheek. When he opens them again, he says, "I hate to impose, John, but I had a very early start. Would you mind making some tea?" 

"I'd be angry at you choosing for me," says Grace. "But there's no tea in this house." Her expression is still cheerful but there's a hint of malice to her words.

"… or coffee," Harold amends, smoothly. "We are fine, John. Please don't worry. We'll be in in a moment." 

John holsters his weapon. "All right. But if I hear slaps, I'm coming out here and I won't care who started it. I'll finish it." 

When he turns his back, Grace mutters under her breath, "We're fine, are we? You're going to keep speaking for me, you'd better be ready for more slaps." 

John wheels to give her a warning look, but there's a tiny curve to her lips. Beside her, Harold is pretending he hasn't seen her smile. John points a warning finger, first at Grace, then at Harold, and goes to put the kettle on. 

He makes tea and coffee, and carries both cups outside. Harold and Grace are sitting at the table on the porch, knees touching, talking quietly. John watches them for a moment then, feeling oddly light, goes to start breakfast. Eggs for Harold. Waffles for Grace. Bacon for everyone. 

Grace appears at his elbow while he's crisping up the bacon. "Hey," she says, touching his arm, then pulls herself onto the counter. 

"Hey," says John. "How is it going out there?" 

Grace shrugs. "I think we've reached a stopping point," she says. "I wouldn't say things are fine, exactly. I doubt we'll be a couple in the way we used to be. I know a lot more about him, for starters." She heaves a sigh and rolls her shoulders. "We talked about a lot of things, things that should have been said before he…" She trips on the word. "Before he died. Then there was this amazing bacon smell, and I bailed." She reaches for a piece and John catches before she gets burned. 

"Still my bodyguard, huh?" she says with a smile, and weaves her fingers through his. She pulls him closer to her. "Harold told me about him and you." 

"Oh." The light, airy feeling he'd carried into the kitchen suddenly condenses; he has been deliberately avoiding the possible consequences of that disclosure. "I don't want to intrude…" he says first, awkwardly polite. Then, "I'm really happy you're both together again. Harold was… It was a bad thing, what happened to him." 

Grace strokes his face, holds it between her hands, and he remembers the morning yesterday, when she held sunlight as it broke across the field. "John," she says, and kisses him on the mouth. "Thank you." 

John is confused, but he smiles under the kiss. "For what?" 

Grace says, "Oh, John." She's gently stroking his cheek; her fingers are long and slender, and they move so carefully, as if she's outlining him with light. "Thank you for keeping him safe. For stopping him from doing the stupid things I know he does, for making him connect to people. For loving him as much as I can see you do." 

John doesn't want to move. He closes his eyes because he has a terrible, unreasonable prickle of tears, and damn it, he's an assassin. "We're not – it's not like it was with you." He tries to make it sound reassuring. "I know he loves you so much that it makes him do stupid things." 

That does make her laugh, and when he opens his eyes again, he can see she's got tears gathering too. 

Grace says suddenly, all in a rush, "When we get home, can we get to know each other a little better?" 

"We've already been on a road trip," says John. "And I've seen your fluffy slippers. That's probably the definition of knowing a person." 

Grace still holds his face. She laughs then kisses him again, this time a little closer, for a little longer. John doesn't move, though he's surprised at how easy it would be to put his arm around her. Eventually, when thoughts are piling up in his mind faster than he can process them, he breaks the kiss off. He stays close to her, though, forehead to forehead. He should be panicking about this, he should be checking for motivations and dangers, but he's not. 

"Too much, huh?" says Grace. "Too much, too fast." She strokes his hair, fingers moving very slightly. "I just – you should know that if Harold and I get back together, that doesn't mean you're going to lose him. I don't want that, not at all. For one thing, I want you in my life, for my own sake. You're important to me." 

John doesn't move. He hadn't envisioned an outcome where he was able to have the things he wanted, not like this. Part of living day-to-day expecting to catch a stray bullet is that he never lets himself hope for too much. Right now, though, Grace has shown him a possible future that is good and happy, and it's mind-blowing. 

The skillet clanks beside him and he jumps. Harold is there, poking the bacon with a fork, turning each rasher over with neat and precise movements. He looks up at John, stricken and amazed and the kind of tired where anything seems possible.

"It was starting to burn," he says to John, by way of apology for interfering. "I didn't want to interrupt but it would be a shame if we all died in a grease fire." 

Grace kisses John again, this time on the cheek, and slips down off the counter. When she passes Harold, he turns to gaze at her and the stiffness of the movement startles Grace.

She touches his chest apologetically, and apparently they don't need words for that. Probably a good thing, John thinks, and then he's alone with Harold. 

John busies himself with cutting slices from yesterday's bread, the perfect thickness for the toaster. Harold lifts the skillet off the flame and sets it down on a potholder, then stares at it for a moment. 

"Paper towel's in the pantry," John says, sliding bread into the toaster. He wonders briefly if Harold will say something like, "I know, John, I monitor the contents of every shelf in every safehouse…" but actually, he just nods and opens the door and grabs the roll, lays a few pieces down on a plate and forks the bacon onto it to drain. 

They haven't had much time for domestic things, he and Harold, what with working the numbers, and trying to block Samaritan's development. The numbers… 

"Did you tell Grace about the Machine, the irrelevant list?" 

Harold nods. "I told her everything." He considers the statement for a moment while he piles bacon onto plates. "Well, everything I could think of at that moment," he adds. "I do have a tendency to hide things even from myself." 

"You don't say," John says. "I never noticed." 

Harold smiles at him, rueful. "There's no need to be sarcastic about it," he says. "I am admitting it as a flaw. I feel badly about it –" he suddenly takes John's hand, and honestly, John's hands have not been held and stroked and touched so much in his life as they have in the last forty-eight hours. 

"I'm sorry," Harold said. "Grace has been –" he looks down, his mouth wry, "- refreshingly brutal about certain aspects of the relationship you and I have been fumbling through." 

"She's got an avenging streak in her a mile wide," says John. "But she doesn't actually know us. We were figuring stuff out. Slowly."

Harold brings John's hand to his mouth and kisses the knuckles. "I'm sorry I needed Grace to point out the ways in which I've treated you shabbily." 

"Well," John says. "We have complicated jobs." The anger he's been harbouring is dwindling now that Harold is with him, Harold's lips are on his skin. Talking to Grace has shown John a future filled with possibilities, but right now John is happy to pause in this present where Harold is touching him. 

"Come here," Harold pulls him closer by the shoulder, cups his cheek. John takes one step and then another, until they are so close he can feel Harold's chest rise and fall with each breath. Harold's touch moves to the back of John's neck, fingers spreading into John's hair. He kisses John, first slowly, then with unequivocal passion. They're making out in the kitchen soon, Harold pressing John's back to the wall, and John's legs are between Harold's so that Harold can reach comfortably without craning his neck. John has an embarrassingly painful erection which isn't helped by Harold's pelvis pressed against it. He gasps for breath, Harold traces John's lip with his thumb, and John is gone again. This is how their relationship has been: a whole series of stolen moments.

They've been kissing for who knows how long when there's a discreet tapping on the wall that separates kitchen from living room. 

Harold rests his head against John's shoulder for a moment to regain his composure. From the living room, they hear Grace speaking, muffled through the wall. 

"Sorry to interrupt – no, actually, I'm not sorry. Can we eat breakfast before the bacon goes cold?" 

John and Grace set the table while Harold fills a jug with juice then loads up plates with eggs, waffles, bacon and fresh toast. On the table there's a quilted hen covering the condiments, and Grace passes it to John with great solemnity, who puts it on the buffet. 

It's strange to be eating a meal, like a regular family. John's not sure that's the right term, but it suits. They eat toast, drink coffee and talk. Grace wants to know why Harold chose this job for her in Italy – "Don't deny it," she says, "It may as well have 'Harold's Treasure Hunt' stamped on it. I'm surprised I didn't see it earlier." – and Harold defends himself, says that Grace was perfectly suited for the position, that she would have gotten the job if she'd known to apply for it. 

"I'll probably be mad about that later," Grace says. She's a bacon-thief, snatching a piece from John and one from Harold, but shares her waffles just as easily. Food disappears, until they're left drinking coffee. Harold is reading newspapers on his tablet, but Grace is slumped comfortably in her chair, holding milky coffee in a wide cup and gazing dreamily out the window. 

"When did you two get together?" she asks into the silence. "I need to start piecing the last few years together. Maybe I should draw a timeline…"

Harold, helpfully, is pretending that Grace asked John specifically, and continues reading the newspaper, flicking pages with a tiny movement of one finger. John is still aglow from having Harold pressed against him, touching him, and he's too happy to be offended by Harold offloading another uncomfortable conversation. 

That doesn't mean John's not above teasing. He has a mouthful of coffee and waits, playing the silence against Harold, waiting for it to get awkward. Grace looks from one to the other, a bit confused, but John raises his eyebrows at her, his face very serious. The silence extends and Grace plays into it, a suspenseful expression on her face. Eventually, Harold notices the silence, notices them both watching him. He puts his tablet down and steeples his fingers as if beginning a lecture. 

"Our first kiss was the fifteenth of December in 2012, on a rooftop. I'd just disarmed a bomb vest that John had been wearing. There were a few other times, usually after one or the other of us were threatened that we exchanged such embraces, but it wasn't until early summer 2013 that we first engaged in…" 

As Harold speaks, Grace starts to blush. "Okay!" she says hurriedly, and puts down her cup with a rattle. Then she giggles and picks it up again, turning to John. "You let him tease you like that?" 

John shrugs. "If I make a fuss, he'll put up the video of me and the spider. I don't want to go viral." 

Harold picks up his own cup with great dignity. "The internet is forever," he says, and takes a sanctimonious sip. John watches him go through a process: coffee, ugh. I prefer tea. There's no tea. Order some tea, Harold. 

When Harold's finger brushes his tablet to make sure sencha is held at this safehouse in the future, John smiles and turns to Grace. "We don't have a lot of time for relationship things," he says. "The numbers never stop coming. Personal stuff gets fitted in around the edges of that. We walk the dog, get takeout. Sometimes stay over at the other's place." It's very strange to talk like this about what he and Harold have. Relationships are for people with shared mortgages and gym memberships. 

"I'm glad," says Grace. "I'm glad you weren't alone all that time." 

There's something loaded about that statement. "Were you alone all that time?" John asks. He can see Harold listening now, carefully focused on the screen. 

"Nobody special," says Grace. "By that, I mean there were some people, and they were lovely, but you know, nothing that kept going. Delia was a cataloguer with Sotheby's, and that lasted for a while but that was because she was constantly travelling. We never really had time to be bored with each other. I wasn't alone. I wasn't with the person I loved, but I wasn't alone." 

John folds his hand over hers. It's going to take time for this to settle into something workable, and for the hurt that Grace has been carrying to fade. 

Harold puts down his tablet and leans forward, whispers another apology in Grace's ear. She closes her eyes and nods. "I know," she says. "I understand it intellectually, but my squishy, emotional brain needs to do some catching up." She squeezes John's hand and he covers it, enclosing it entirely in his own. 

"It's a beautiful squishy and emotional brain," Harold says. He stands creakily, and kisses her forehead. "I have to work now; there are two numbers at the moment and Ms Groves, while an excellent field agent, has some interesting ideas about what constitutes saving a person." He stacks plates and carries them to the kitchen, where he has his laptop open on the wooden table. 

"She's the one on the motorbike?" Grace asks. "She sounds interesting. Maybe I'll get to know her better now." 

John gathers the cups, hooking one finger through each handle. "You almost did. She and Harold had a disagreement early on, and she made some veiled threats against you. Made an appointment to see you and everything." 

That startles Grace, and she is clearly considering. "Is it like that often? Threatening people you love?" 

John doesn't want to say that there aren't that many people that he loves still alive. It's barely true these days, anyway: there's Fusco and his kid, Root and Shaw, of course Bear, and maybe a half dozen people that make up his social circle since working with Harold: Leon, Megan Tillman and Doctor Madani, Genrika taking flute lessons, Holly still making flights back and forth across the globe, Jack Salazar in the Navy planning his career. 

"It's not the easiest job," he says, eventually. "It's worth the cost, though. Generally." He drops the cups into the kitchen, gently squeezes Harold's shoulder while the poor guy argues with Root about how to deal with threats, and goes to the front door. It's time for a periphery check. 

Grace follows him out. "You going for a walk? Can I come?" 

John checks outside: there have been no intrusions, not even a whisper to say that Samaritan is on to them. "Okay," he says. "But if something happens, I want you to do everything I say." 

"Done!" Grace passes him a hat and scarf from the well-loaded coat rack at the front door, puts on some for her, and they step out into the cold morning air. 

Grace holds his hand as they walk – checking first with him – and he takes her on an external tour of the building. Her woollen fingers sits neatly inside his leather glove, soft and fuzzy. She has wrapped her scarf right up past her mouth, and the tip of her nose is turning cherry red again, this time from the cold. 

"How are you doing?" John asks, as they round the corner of the house on a thin gravel path. There's thick forest ahead behind the house, and his eyesight is focused on that darkness, watching for movement between the trees, but he can do that perfectly well and still maintain a conversation. Working with Harold constantly in his ear has made that even easier. 

"I'm happy but it's a weird kind of happy, you know?" she says, as they walk. Built as it is into the base of a hill, the rear of the building is up quite a steep incline, and she's a little puffed with the climb. "When he was – when I first – after the bombing, I used to see him everywhere. Just ahead of me in the crowd, out of the corner of my eye at home. Or I'd hear his voice saying my name. I'm not being superstitious: I knew it was my brain playing tricks on me. But every time it would give me this incredible surge of hope and then it would break like a wave, and honestly, that was as exhausting as just dealing with the grief." 

John slings an arm around her shoulders to give her a hug and she leans against him for a few strides, her palm on his chest for balance as they climb up hand-cut steps lined with planks that have warped in the weather. 

"It settled after a while, like they told me at the grief support group. I even missed it, once I realised it wasn't happening again, because it meant I was moving on and that was like losing him all over again, you know?" She glances up at him with a wry expression. "Yeah, you know what I mean. Anyway, now he's back, and every time I see him, it's like I'm getting an electric shock or something, like my brain has that reaction, and my common sense is telling me it's not real, but it is. He's right there in front of me." She shakes her head, rueful. "This isn't something I can bring to the support group." 

John props against a rickety wooden fence. The view from up here is pretty good, he can see the whole property spread out. Nobody anywhere near, and the closest sign of habitation is a thin line of smoke out of someone's chimney at least four miles away. 

Grace pulls out her notebook and pulls off a glove with her mouth, tucking it under her arm. She sketches in the landscape, getting a good sense of the height of their position, and the way the dew still sits heavy on the fields and lawns. John watches her work with strong pencil strokes and confident movements of her hand. She doesn't erase anything, she builds on the lines she's laid down first, until the whole image starts to develop dimension and shadow and texture. 

"Do you draw?" she asks, still hatching in the pattern of the gravel road. 

John laughs, breath huffing out in front of him. "Only guns, I'm afraid." It is odd to recognise how much Grace had changed in his perception, from someone fragile needing protection to a person who could weather great emotional shock and still see beauty in the world. Stronger than him in that way at least.

"That's a shame," Grace says, looking up at him quickly then back at her work. "I could teach you. I bet you've got great hand-eye coordination."

"Maybe," says John. "There's got to be more to it than that, though." 

Grace finishes the sketch to her satisfaction, tucks her notebook away and turns to watch him speculatively while she slips her glove back on again. "When we get back to New York, would you like to go on a date?" 

John blinks. "A date?" He understands what Grace was talking about, back in the kitchen while he was cooking: that he would be able to keep seeing Harold, that she wouldn't object to another relationship in that way. And she had kissed him, an experimental foray, to see if they fit together well, but he had put that aside as emotional fallout after the great shock of learning Harold was alive. This, though, was definite and considered. 

"A date," says Grace, and takes his gloved hands in hers, weaves argyle-knit fingers between his. "It sounds like what you have with Harold is a little haphazard, and maybe that works for you guys, but I like a little more definition in my relationships." 

"Relationship?" He must sound inane to her, like a parrot, but that's twice the word has come up in conversation today. 

"We're going to have a relationship of some sort, John," Grace says. "Even if it's just a friendship. We're in love with the same man, for one thing." Then she giggles. "I'm sorry, I really am, but for a deadly assassin, you have the most adorable blush." 

John's eyebrows pull into a perplexed frown, and he makes a decision. "A date would be nice. Thank you, I'd like that. Although I have to reserve the right to be late or a no-show if Harold needs me for a mission." 

Grace waves her hand airily. "Well, of course," she says. "That only makes sense." Then she reaches for him, pulls him down to her height, and after checking that he is okay with it, kisses him. It's still a tentative kiss, but there's nothing platonic about it. John leans into it this time, opens his mouth a little, finds that she has done the same. It's a sweet kiss, and a kiss that promises things he's suddenly quite interested in. When they pull away, he has his arms around her and she is folded in against him. 

"We'd better go back," she said. "Harold will be worried."

John showed her the earwig. "He'd check, if he were worried. But yeah, we'd better go in." He points to the clouds gathering. There's rain on the way. 

She lets him go first down the uneven steps, because, as she says, if she trips and falls he can stop her, but if he trips and falls, they'll both get squashed. John doesn't mind. He knows he rarely trips, and if he falls, he's got a knack for landing on his feet. 

They work their way back down to the house, and stop for a moment to watch the rain start to tumble down. John scoops an arm across her shoulder again, just because he can. There's still Samaritan to deal with, and Decima isn't going to make it easy for Grace to move freely through the city, but John thinks they'll be okay. There's a resilience underpinning the three of them, something that will hold them together. That's something he is happy to put his trust in.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mula’s art in this is definitely NSFW.

They spend a few days upstate while Harold arranges a secure apartment in New York for Grace. John worries that Grace will see this as another way Harold has overstepped his authority, making decisions for her. He mentions this when they're patrolling the grounds of the chalet safe house, and Grace shakes her head. 

"There's a difference between Harold doing something I can't, and Harold controlling every aspect of my life." She holds onto her hat when the wind gusts hard against their bodies and she grins at him. "Besides, Harold really does seem to like messing around with real estate." 

"As long as you tell me if he's overwhelming you," John says. He reaches to lift her over a muddy patch; she doesn't have a pair of good outdoor shoes up here. She was packing for Italy, after all, when Samaritan started hunting her. 

"Oh, I'll tell him," Grace says, her expression ferocious. "I'm done letting him use politeness as a shield." 

The atmosphere each day in the safe house is a little easier. John keeps catching Harold and Grace talking softly in corners. He tries to withdraw from those private moments, not wanting to intrude on the necessary repairs to their relationship. Grace will have none of that, and snags his elbow to pull him into their conversations, ostensibly so that he can back up her side of the argument, but mostly because she wants him there. Harold, not to be outdone by this tactic, does the same: catches his attention with a raised finger or a pointed glance. John finds he doesn't object to being the arbiter of their arguments because each is so delighted by the other. They might still be thrashing out the details of the past four years, but there is lightness between them, too. 

On the first night after Harold arrives at the safe house, John sleeps in Harold's bed. There is a moment of awkwardness about it, defused when Harold lifts his case and winced. John carries it to his room and sets it on the bed, then Harold is there behind him. 

"Are you comfortable where you're sleeping?" he asks John. "I would be glad of your company." It's a tentative question, left open for John to refuse without offence.

John rubs his hand over his chin, feel a day's worth of stubble and sighs. "I'd like that. Can't promise I'll be up for anything, though." 

Harold limps to the bed and sits with a sigh. "Honestly, John, I will be happy if I can manage to undress before I fall asleep." 

John laughs softly and helps Harold out of his jacket. "I think I can help with that, at least." 

Harold sleeps spooned against John, and John spends the night drifting in and out of dreams of driving or running. Each time he wakes, he finds Harold in his arms, breathing slow and even. It doesn't take long for John to fall asleep again. 

Quite late in the morning, one of the phones on the bedside table dings, and John's body jerks awake. 

"Yours," says Harold, and yawns wide. "What time is it?" 

John picks it up and reads the text. It's from Grace in the next room.

 _Ha ha, I have your number now,_ she says. _I made coffee – do you want some?_

"It's Grace," John says. "And it's nearly ten." _Please!_ he sends back.

Harold makes a disgusted grimace. "Days after you learn that I'm a morning person by habit, we sleep in practically to midday." He pulls himself upright and leans across John's body, wincing a little as he grabs his glasses and puts them on. He's blinking, gazing into John's eyes when Grace opens the door with a shoulder, carrying a tea-tray. 

"I brought coffee," she says. She's wearing the ridiculous fuzzy pink robe, and battered pink slippers. 

Harold sniffs, but accepts a mug. John puts all the evidence together, and decides Harold might be a morning person, but he's a grumpy morning person without tea. He takes the tray from Grace, balances it easily while he shifts up next to Harold in the large bed. He pulls the coverlet aside. The mornings up here are chilly, and even rugged up, Grace looks cold. 

"Ooh, yes please," she says. She kicks off her slippers and wriggles in next to John, punches the pillow into shape and takes her mug. 

"I warn you; Grace has the cold feet of the undead," Harold says calmly. He has his tablet now, and is checking all the things Harold needs to constantly monitor. 

Grace scowls at him. "We've gotten along perfectly well until you showed up, mister," she says. "There's no need to be mean about it." 

John hides his wince when she plants her icy feet against his leg with a sigh, but Harold sees it. He laughs softly, and loops his arm through John's by way of apology. 

John drinks his coffee, feels the warmth of Harold's legs against his, the fading cold of Grace's feet – how can they be so cold when she wrapped them in those huge slippers? – and wonders at the strange comfort of being sandwiched between these two very complicated people. It won't last, he tells himself sternly. This is kickback from the mission, this is emotional overload for Harold and Grace. Up here, insulated from the rest of the world and separated from their own troubles, it's safe to be recklessly happy. It's not sustainable. It's a dandelion clock sheltered from the breeze. Back in the city Samaritan will tear it apart. 

Things are dicey when they are all back in New York: by necessity, Grace has to keep to the shadow map Root had developed, or risk capture by Samaritan agents. There's a lot of scrambling, a few too many firefights. For a city of eight million, Grace has a weird way of stumbling into old acquaintances. Samaritan picks up her trail more than once.

Two weeks in, though, Grace is finally settled in one of Harold's safe houses. John and Harold help her get everything set up. 

"Will this be comfortable enough?" Harold, ever the over-caterer, scans the small apartment, worried. "I am sorry that your world has been restricted to a relatively small footprint." 

Grace is already investigating the take-out menus that had been shoved under the door in the interim since Harold last had someone clear the mail. "This is Manhattan, Harold – there's more of the world crammed in per square inch than anywhere else. I think I'll be okay." She holds up a menu, brightly coloured in pink and orange. "Look, this place is a hardware in the front and an Indian take-out in the back – let's get dinner from there." 

"You think they deliver hardware too? You could do with some more coat hooks," says John, holding three of Grace's coats and a sunhat in his arms. He's amazed that Grace managed to pack all of this into one case, but then he's getting used to being astonished by Grace. 

Harold and Grace sit on the comfortable brown velvet sofa – more battered than Harold usually allows in his safe houses, but maybe this one is attached to one of his less wealthy pseudonyms – and open take-out boxes. 

"Beer. Really?" Harold holds up one of the bottles with a dubious expression. 

Grace takes it from him, and reaches into the wooden bowl on the coffee table for an bottle opener. "You can't drink wine with Indian, Harold. I thought we had this all worked out." She levers the cap off with a practiced gesture and passes it back to him. "Don't worry – it's a local microbrew. It's plenty fancy." 

Harold takes the bottle with an exaggerated sigh and passes it to John. "Well, as long as it's fancy," he says and reaches out for the next one. 

They're slipping back into familiarity, John realises. Shared jokes and gentle mockery, as well as that common understanding of what the other likes to eat, what teasing the other will accommodate. Even when they sit down on the sofa, it's easy and comfortable: near enough that they're touching at the hip, far apart enough that they won't elbow each other in the teeth. John makes to pull one of the armchairs closer to the coffee table when Grace shifts her legs to one side so there's a gap on the brown velvet. 

"Lots of room here, John," she says. 

Harold rearranges the takeout and napkins so that everything is in easy reach for all three of them. John perches on the edge of the sofa, aware of his height like the peak of a mountain blocking the view for everyone, then slides to the floor. Harold and Grace immediately nestle in close to him, so that he's surrounded on all sides by legs and laps. When he leans his head back, he encounters Harold's hip, Grace's thigh, and he sighs. Then he reaches for a plastic fork. He's starving. He's carried boxes all day, after all. 

The takeout boxes are empty and John holds a bottle of fancy beer slowly warming to room temperature when someone – Grace, he thinks, from the tentative touch – strokes his hair. A frisson of pleasure prickles the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back into her hand, and she makes a happy noise, a soft purr or sigh. John would be happy to stay like this for hours, breathing spices and the smell of old books – no matter the pseudonym, there are always books in Harold's safe houses – but after a moment, Harold takes hold of John's throat. 

It's surprisingly possessive, the way Harold spreads his fingers from John's Adam's apple to the point of his jaw. John knows that Harold has a tendency towards imperious behaviour in bed, and it's never bothered John. After all, a successful career in the military means John is perfectly comfortable taking orders – maybe even likes it, when it's someone he loves and trusts. This dynamic, though, is a little more pointed than usual. John glances up to see Harold gazing at Grace with a bellicose expression, and he shifts beneath them, ready to intervene. 

Grace has already shown that she has little time or respect for Harold when he's feeling defensive and controlling. She reaches out above John, brushes Harold's cheek with her knuckles. Then she mirrors his position, cupping John's chin in the same way: thumb just under one ear, little finger brushing his throat. 

John isn't certain what's happening here, but when he checks in with Grace, her smile is a wicked thing. She catches John looking and twitches an eyebrow in his direction. 

"Anything you can do, Harold," she says. Her voice is low, and John realises she's daring him to go a little further. It makes him grin, the way she knows Harold right to his bones. She clearly knows Harold's competitive streak, doesn't fear it in the slightest, and is unafraid to use it on him in return. John grins wider when he sees Harold smile at her. Harold knows exactly what she's doing, and he loves her for it. 

"Are you going to double dog dare me?" Harold asks. The love in his voice, the humour, the amazing, impish smile – these are parts of Harold John has never seen, but which fit him well. It's like a door has opened in the house they've occupied, and the room within is both new and perfectly familiar at the same time. There's a longing in John's chest, as well as a realisation that the longing is being answered right now in front of him. 

It must show in his expression, because Grace brushes his temple, worried. "You okay?"

John nods, though he doesn't trust his voice to be steady right now. It doesn't matter, because Harold is tracing the outline of John's lips with his index finger. John sighs and opens his mouth a little. When Harold moves his hand away Grace takes over, and John catches a fingertip between his teeth, worries the callused skin with the end of his tongue. Grace's breathing takes on a gratifying hitch, and John hopes she is imagining his mouth between her legs. He grins up at her, wide and eager. 

Harold raises the stakes, pulling John upright by the shirt front – he can't lean down to kiss John without significant rearrangement of bodies – and John obliges, holding himself up. Grace presses in behind John, strokes the front of his chest with fingers spread wide over the muscles holding John up on his elbows. She avidly watches Harold kiss John, glancing from one to the other, then puts her open mouth hard to John's neck, using teeth where the skin is soft and pale. John groans and shivers, caught between the two of them. The small room is suddenly too warm, and his skin flushes. He can feel the relative coolness of Grace's bare arms against his shirt-clad body, as well as the taste of the microbrew beer on Harold's tongue, and he is swimming in sensation. 

Harold pulls away first, gasping. He's flushed too, and his hair is rumpled, and John has never seen him this luminously happy before.

Harold opens his mouth to say something, sees the effect Grace's teeth have on John, and clearly forgets his words. "John," he says instead, as if that will have to suffice for now. "John." 

"I need more room," says Grace, standing up. It turns out that Harold is not the only one who is demanding in lovemaking. Grace reaches for John, leads him into the bedroom, to the bed they'd made up this afternoon with new linens and pillows and coverlet. 

Harold follows behind, walking carefully on muscles grown tight from sitting still so long. "I think this place needs a new sofa," he says absently, loosening his tie. 

Grace pauses, halfway through the buttons of John's shirt. "Do not order me one from a catalogue," she says. "I'll find my own." 

John slides his shoulders free from the shirt. "He won't," he says quickly. "Harold's learned a lot." Then Harold slides his own arm around John's hip, and strokes the line of dark hair on John's belly. John closes his eyes in pleasure. 

"Clearly," Grace says, drily. 

There's a quiet, still moment then, with John between the two of them. It would be tense or awkward if John didn't have so much trust in them. He smiles down at Grace, cups her cheek and kisses her sweetly on the mouth. 

"I really didn't think this would happen so fast," he says. "I assumed we'd date. You said you wanted to date." He lands small pecks down the side of her neck, soft brushes of lips on skin, sometimes open-mouthed, sometimes not. 

Grace gasps as he mouths her collarbone. "This is a date," she says in a rush. "Isn't this a date? I've had dates like this…" John encircles her waist, puts his lips to her décolletage and she strokes his hair, arching her head back to give him room. 

"There's no reason you can't both date later," says Harold. He shrugs out of his jacket, unbuttons his waistcoat with deft movements and slips it from his shoulders. John can see that he's hard, just from kissing John, from watching John kiss Grace. John exhales at the sight of him, grinds a little against Grace's hip, and she laughs, a gentle, delighted sound. 

Harold, his shirt hanging free, his glasses askew, traces the line of her cheekbones, drawing her close to kiss her. Now at her back, John slips the straps of her dress away to put lips to her shoulder blades. Something soft brushes his neck, and he realises Harold has eased Grace's hair free from the ponytail so it spills down in a tumble of red. John gasps and steals her away from Harold to kiss her deeply. 

He and Grace kiss for a long time, slow and deep, learning the way the other moves. Grace likes to pause now and then, stopping with her nose to his cheek, smiling and breathing heavily. John's eyelids flutter as he's enveloped by her presence: the faint fragrance of cosmetics, the whisper of her hair against his arms, the warmth radiating from her skin. Harold steps close behind him, runs fingers across the small of John's back, cups his ass, strokes the back of his thighs. John aches all over with want for the two of them: he's already grinding against Grace. He could come this way, he thinks, just from their hands on his body, from the rub of his cock against Grace's hipbone. When Harold reaches up to mouth the back of John's neck, John groans and shivers. 

Harold steps away, rubbing his shoulder ruefully; the angle is a strain for him. In a romance novel, this would be where they tumble effortlessly into bed, but reality is a little more awkward. Harold needs to be careful of his neck, and for all he and Grace are rediscovering old patterns, there are going to be differences to accommodate. John realises he can be the mediator there, at least. He turns to Harold, cups his face gently then kisses him somewhat less gently, to Harold's gratifyingly low sigh. 

After a few minutes, Harold eases away. "This is wonderful, it really is, but I think it would be prudent to go forward slowly." His glasses are misted up and there are two pink spots high on his cheeks. "I know it was only two beers…" 

"Two and half," says Grace, straightening his glasses. "Not bad for someone who doesn't like beer." 

"Two and a half," Harold amends himself. "I think I'd like to be a little more clear-headed for the first time we…uh." The colour deepens on his face. For someone whose filthy, clever tongue was just in John's mouth, Harold can be ridiculously coy. 

Still, it's what Harold wants, and giving Harold what he wants is largely what John lives for. John sits down and pats the coverlet, mock-coaxing. "Are you sober enough for a little fooling around?" he asks, only a little sarcastic. He's just drunk enough to be wildly turned on, and wouldn't say no to sex, no matter how ill-advised. 

Harold steps in close, pushing John's knees apart and kisses him again, deep and demanding. John sighs and shuts up, gives himself over to that tongue, those hands. 

"I guess that answers the question," Grace says. She peels Harold out of the rest of his suit, folds it and drops it over the back of a chair. Harold looks at the suit, worried, then lets Grace tow him to the other side. John gleefully shucks off his own trousers and shirt, throws them to the floor beside the chair, ignores the cluck of Harold's tongue at such blithe messiness, and lolls on the bed while the others find the most comfortable arrangement. 

The most comfortable position is with Harold in the middle, back propped by pillows, and Grace and John on either side, their limbs enmeshed. For all Harold's primness about taking it slow, he seems perfectly happy to direct John. 

"Touch her – yes, like that," he says, as John spreads one hand wide to cup Grace's breast, stroking the nipple with his callused thumb. Grace makes a sound in the back of her throat and arches upwards, grinding herself against John's thigh. John catches Harold's expression – eyes focused and glittering, cheeks flushed and mouth open – and John wants to make a similar noise. Harold closes his arm and draws Grace in to nip at her neck. John finds his own mouth moving lower: the curve of Grace's ribcage, the softness of her belly. He can see the remaining line of a two-piece swimsuit from the spray of freckles across her navel. He rests his head there for a while, watching Harold and Grace kissing, seeing the interplay of new and familiar for them. Grace seems very taken with the lines at the corner of Harold's eyes, tracing them with her fingertips, her expression wondering. Harold smiles at her, and the lines crease together. John realises how little he sees Harold smile so openly, with the whole of his face. Harold's smiles usually come in small snatches, in the tone of his voice or the twitch of his lips. It's disarming to see him express happiness so freely and it makes John's heart thump. This is clearly the safest Harold has felt since John met him. John clambers back up to touch both of them with careful hands. He can keep them safe, both of them, in this place that Samaritan cannot see. 

Harold draws him in to kiss him, too, and Grace strokes her fingers through his hair like he was a big cat. For a while they take a break and curl up together in the bed. Harold dozes, or at least he closes his eyes, though he keeps a possessive arm on John's hip. John uses Harold's chest as a pillow from where he can look up at Grace cuddled in against Harold's shoulder.

Grace reaches out to brush John's lips. "You okay?" she asks. 

John's smile against her fingertip feels lazy and slow, spreading like molasses in the sun. All the warmth and skin contact have made him dopey with pleasure. 

"Yeah," he says with a happy sigh. "You?" 

Grace traces the outline of his mouth. "Yes…" she says, drawing the word out long and ending on a questioning tone. 

"But…?" John offers into the quiet. When he speaks, Grace's finger slips into his mouth, and he kisses it. When she doesn't withdraw it, he nips at it gently, plays his teeth over the tip. 

"I like your mouth," Grace says, then when John closes his mouth and applies a little suction, she groans. "I like it a lot. It's pretty. And clever." 

"He's very good with it," Harold says, eyes still closed. "Skilled and generous." 

Grace giggles, though she doesn't take her eyes off John, who takes her finger deep in his mouth then pulls back to lavish attention on the tip again. "Harold, you sound like a Yelp review." 

Harold's eyes are open now. "Five stars," he says. "Excellent service, will certainly be visiting again." 

John takes this as an invitation and a command, so he scoops Grace up and pulls her over to his side. She squeaks, then settles comfortably with her back to Harold's chest. Harold's arm snakes over her belly to hold her steady, while John slides downwards. 

John kisses her knee then bends her leg, crooking it upward so he can reach the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh. From this position, he can see Harold and Grace both watching him: Grace with eyes half-closed, sleepy and aroused, and Harold with that laser intensity again. 

"You okay with this?" John asks in Harold's direction. 

Harold reaches down to take John's hand, curls it in his and kisses the knuckles one by one. "John, I am very okay with this," he says. He weaves his fingers through John's and guides them to his own cock, hard and hot under John's palm. "Let's say I am…" his voice hitches as John moves their joined hands together along the length of him, "eager." 

"Excuse me," Grace says, and cups John's head so that he is looking directly. "I believe John and I were having a moment." She is flushed and has been biting her lip; it gleams wet in the soft golden light. 

Harold's chuckle – wicked and a little husky – sends goosebumps along John's spine. "I do beg your pardon," he says to her politely, and releases John.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=33217ap)

John grins and returns his attention to the soft skin of Grace's thighs, so pale there that now she's aroused the skin is blush pink and radiating warmth. He kisses her there, gentle and open-mouthed, and she sighs, spreading her legs wider. When he reaches her cunt – wet and beautiful – he touches her softly, teasing her open, learning her contours. Then at her encouraging moan, he touches a little less softly, pressing firmly, furiously turned on by her slickness. He spreads her with two fingers, works his tongue inside her, then up to her clit. Grace moans, and throws a leg over his back, grinding his ass down into the bed with her heel. John's cock is moving with pleasant friction against the sheets and for a moment he loses himself in the situation. Grace is beautiful, spread open in front of him, watching him with intense and hungry anticipation.

For a moment, John thinks of all the things that have happened – both good and terrible – to bring him here to this place, and his head spins. Or maybe it's lack of oxygen, he's not sure, but when Harold puts two fingers at the back of his neck, John is immediately more grounded. He loves Harold's hands, loves the way he touches John, and right now, that point of contact is as if he is guiding John. Now that he can concentrate again, John doesn't really need guidance: Grace's body is a map of reactions teaching him what she likes. She's a hair-clutcher, which John does like, and she is grinding against his face, which John fucking _loves_. When she pulls him closer and holds him there, he hears Harold laugh softly behind him, and then John's gone. All he wants to do is make Grace come, make her feel good, and make Harold happy. 

He works Grace into a frenzy with his mouth, until she's arched and moaning around him, thighs over his shoulders, humping up against his mouth. When she comes, she drives her heels into his back, pushing his cock down hard, and he nearly comes too, just from that and the sounds she's making. 

When he rises up from between her legs, Grace is splayed across the pillows, one arm thrown over her head and her hair a rosy puddle against the linens. Her breath is just starting to regulate but her chest still heaves and her skin gleams damp in the lamplight. 

"Oh," she says, eyes closed. "Oh, my God." 

John plants a slick, happy peck on her knee, and she pulls him up to wrap him in her arms. He snuggles in and nuzzles her neck, then rests his head on her shoulder. 

"That was… Thank you," she says. She's hoarse and exhausted, and John can feel that every muscle is soft and pliant. It's probably the most relaxed he's ever seen her.

"You're welcome," he says, and traces a line down between her breasts. "You're beautiful, you know that?" 

"She is," Harold says, from behind them. "You are both beautiful, and I'm so happy to see you together here." 

Grace laughs. She trails her fingertips along John's shoulder blade. "Does Harold look as smug as he sounds?" 

John glances behind him. "Yep," he says. "Can't blame him, though. This is all because of him." 

"Still," says Grace, pushing herself up on her elbows. "He's seen me all unravelled." 

"I have," Harold says. "And very lovely it was." 

Grace flops on her side and shimmies up to nestle next to Harold. "Wanna get unravelled with John?" She looks over her shoulder at John, sitting on his heels at the end of the bed. "How about you, John? I bet you're beautiful when you're getting fucked." 

John's eyelashes dip at the words, and he arches his back, thinking of how that will feel, Harold inside him and Grace watching every expression. His cock twitches hard against his belly. 

Harold is watching him now, his gaze sharp and unblinking. "Would you like that, John?" 

John sighs, and crawls across to kiss him, deep and open. Harold's fingers goes to John's hair, stroking and holding him. John holds himself above Harold's body so that his weight doesn't hurt Harold's back. It gives Harold the opportunity to run his palm down John's body in light, fast strokes that tease. Harold's made a study of John's responses since they started sleeping together, and he can find all the places that make John sigh: the curve of muscle over his hip, the sensitive skin at the cleft of his ass, the pink skin of his latest scar. Each touch makes John gasp or hiss or grind down against Harold's leg. After a moment, Grace joins in, so there's an impossible number of hands on John's body, more than he can keep track of at once. Soon he's floating above Harold while a dozen hands light up his skin with gentle touch. He doesn't really notice when they guide him up and onto his back; he's concentrating on getting oxygen in between the gasps. That, and snatching a glimpse now and then of Harold's face, of Grace's, a reassurance that everything is good here, that everyone is rapt and happy. 

He's not sure if it's Harold or Grace who pushes a slick finger inside him first, and that's fascinating enough to bring him back to himself with a rush. It must be Harold, because John's head is cradled in Grace's lap, and she is gently rolling his nipple while she traces the contours of his ear. The fingers – two now, and it's definitely Harold, since only Harold can find John's sweet spot with such assurance – move with upwards pressure, and John gasps with hungry, hot pleasure. 

"Oh, John," says Grace, her voice low. She's turned on, he can tell. It's on every breath John sucks in, and he knows now how arousal smells on her. He scoots backwards a little, despite the small noise of annoyance from where Harold leans on the end of the bed. John wants to press his back into her, wants her draped over him when Harold fucks him. 

Harold frowns, put out by this rearrangement of bodies, but he readjusts, kneeling above John's spread legs. When John pulls his legs up to make room, Grace wraps one hand around each thigh, holding him in place. It's what John wants – he didn't realise how much he wanted it, until Grace's arms make a cage to hold John still and safe. He leans back, head between her breasts, and lets his eyelids dip until he's watching Harold through his eyelashes. 

Grace has her lips to his temple, and her breath moves regularly against his skin. Harold enters him, excruciatingly slow, always so slow, always demanding patience when John wants to gallop ahead full steam. John tenses up, straining forward in anticipation, wanting all of Harold now, but Grace kisses him, whispers nonsense to him: he's beautiful, it's going to be so good, she could watch him forever. 

This – John in Grace's arms – is apparently the end of all Harold's stoicism, because he makes a noise in the back of his throat and pushes deep into John. John arches and whines, thrusting upwards with the sensation of it. It's so good, Harold knows his body so well, and with Grace holding him, John doesn't know how to contain himself. 

On every thrust into him, John cries out. Grace leans over him to nibble his bicep and then, experimentally, gives him a nip. That makes John buck, and she moans with him. 

"Again," Harold gasps. John sees the sweat beading Harold's forehead, the slide of his palms on John's chest, and then there's a sweet sting as Grace bites him again, hard. John doesn't remember anything cogent after that, just pleasure inside him, sharpness outside, and always, always being held between the two of him. 

It's Grace gripping his cock, he thinks wildly, at some stage. She doesn't know the shape of him just yet, and takes a moment to adjust her grip, change the angle, before she can jack him smoothly back and forth. Artist's hands, he thinks, as he's coming all over his belly, strong and callused, different to Harold.

Harold's pace increases, and his gaze drifts from John's face to Grace's expression of concentration as she works John's cock gently through the last shudders of orgasm. When Harold comes, it's with John's name falling from his lips in a sigh or a moan, leaning hard against John's legs as his cock pulses inside John. John is raw with overstimulation at this point, but Grace thankfully lets go of his cock and nestles beside him, kissing his dry lips, his cheek, his throat. Harold withdraws gently, runs one sweaty palm along John's thigh, and takes care of the clean-up. Meanwhile John curls up against Grace, still sweating and panting and completely unable to move again. 

Harold somehow finds the energy to fetch towels and damp washcloths, but John is done. He can barely keep his eyes open long enough for Harold to clamber into the bed and nestle himself carefully at John's back, and then he's asleep. 

When he wakes, Grace is in the middle but she has her arms curled against John's chest and her cheek on his shoulder, breathing evenly onto his skin. John lies on his side, breathing sex and faintly the fabric softener smell of Grace's laundry. The sheets which they only put on this morning will need changing. He doesn't mind though, not when every breath reminds him of the taste of Grace's skin or the scent of old books and clean linen that hangs perennially about Harold's clothes. He shifts slowly so his head is pillowed on his arm and he can look up at Harold. 

Harold has left the lamp on, and the soft golden light glints off his glasses.

"I was watching you sleep," he says softly to John. "I so rarely get the chance." 

John blinks slowly and orients himself amidst the interwoven limbs that surround him. Harold hold Grace close and she is spooned into him with her cheek resting on John's chest. John reaches along Grace's back, pulling the covers up over her, and she makes an appreciative noise then burrows down into the warmth, nestled against John's arm. While she dozes, Harold gently twists curls into her long red hair, winding locks around his fingers then letting them go in a ringlet. He catches John watching him and gives him a delightfully goofy smile. 

"They never stay for long," he says of her curls, faux-mournful. "Her hair will insist on going its own way. Quite representative of the whole, I'm afraid." 

John takes a deep breath, slowly so as not to disturb Grace. "Would you have it any other way?" 

"Think about your answer, mister," Grace says sleepily from under the covers. "That's my foot right… about… there." 

Harold makes a horrified noise and shifts uncomfortably. "How are your feet still cold?" he says, appalled. 

Grace giggles. "I weaponised them," she says. "I wanted to impress John." 

"I'm impressed," John says, hurriedly. "Please don't use them on me." 

"Mmmh," says Grace and buries herself deeper into his armpit. "You smell good," is the last thing she says before she falls asleep again. 

Harold reaches over Grace's shoulder to touch John's cheek softly. There's a lot unsaid between them, but Harold's face right now is as good as a telegraph. 

I love you, his expression says. I trust you with this person who is so important to me. You amaze me. I didn't know it was possible to feel this happy. 

John leans into Harold's touch, then turns his head to kiss the palm. "Me too," he says, and closes his eyes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Light Becomes What It Touches Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770814) by [MulaSaWala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/pseuds/MulaSaWala)




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